


Forget-Me-Not Summer

by MadelineAmyJayne



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4235733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadelineAmyJayne/pseuds/MadelineAmyJayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco and his mother, Arabella, live comfortably in a nice area called Jinae. But when his mother tells him she can no longer afford their present lifestyle, they have a brazing row, and Marco goes to bed angry and upset. When he wakes the following morning however, his mother is no where to be seen.</p>
<p>He raises the alarm but everyone is baffled. When searches fail to discover Arabella's whereabouts, Marco is forced to live with his Aunt Vi and cousin Hannah Diamant, who resent his presence and treat him badly.</p>
<p>Marco is miserable, but when he meets a neighbour, Jean, things begin to look up and Jean promises to help his new friend in his search, and does so until war intervenes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Change

**1937**

Marco Bodt was dragged up from the fathoms deeps in sleep by an unexpected sound. Groggily he sat up on his elbow and peered around the room, suddenly aware that his heart was fluttering. An only child, he shared his room with no one, had it all to himself, but night noises had never previously worried him. Indeed, he seldom heard them, for he usually went to bed late, at the same time as his mother, and slept as soon as his head touched the pillow, continuing to do so until roused by his mother’s call up the stairs, or even a hand on his shoulder.

But then Marco recalled the row which had raged between himself and Arabella – he always called his mother Arabella – earlier that evening. Now that he thought about it, he realised that it had started because he has been telling Arabella that his teachers thought he stood a good chance of getting his School Certificate, perhaps even going to university. He had come home from Jinae Academy both excited and delighted, and had been horrified when Arabella had said, flatly, that University was out of the question. ‘I’ve done my best to get you a decent education, living in a good neighborhood and seeing that you were always nicely turned out, with everything the other boys have, even though I’ve been on my own ever since your father died,’ she had said. ‘Well Marco, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’ve reached the end of my tether. I simply cannot afford to go on paying your school fees indefinitely, so next term you’ll have to start at an ordinary council school.’ She had wagged a reproving finger when Marco began to protest. ‘Don’t try to bully me Marco. Just remember you are still a child and have to do as I tell you. Next year you will be at the same school as your cousin Hannah…’

She would have gone on to explain more fully but Marco had not been listening. Instead, he had been too busy trying to shout his mother down, saying that he had no intentions of changing schools, that Arabella must jolly well find the money for the fees from somewhere; he had even suggested that his mother might do ‘a real job’ instead of hanging round the theatre taking very tuppenny-ha’penny part she was offered.

Arabella had waited until Marco had run out of breath and had replied with a cold finality which had frightened her son. ‘Marco, in case you have not noticed, we are in the middle of a depression. I admit my wages from the Garrison Players are small, but I’m sure that one day I’ll get the sorts of parts I deserve and then money will not be so tight. As it is, the only means I have of continuing our present way of life is by what I think of as clipping both of my wings. You will go to a council school until you are old enough to work on your own account, and we’ll move into a house in one of the courts and take a lodger – two, if necessary – because the rent of this house is crippling me, honest to God. The only alternative is to marry Mr. Pixis, that fellow who haunts the stage door…’

‘A stage-door Johnny?’ Marco had been both scornful and incredulous. ‘But you laugh at them, say they’ve never got two pennies to rub together… isn’t Mr. Pixis that little weaselly one with a bold head and bush of a grey mustache? You scoffed at him, you know you did! You said to me he ought to be a monk because he had a built-in notion. You can’t mean to marry _HIM!'_

‘He’s rich,’ Arabella had said simply. ‘During the week he lives in a service flat. Oh, Marco, it’s the height of luxury. He gets meals and the most wonderful alcohols as part of his rent, and the flat is kept clean as well. And then he’s got a mansion in the Stohess District – I’ve always loved the security there – and he says that if I marry him, we’ll live there whenever I haven’t got and important part at the theatre.’

‘But you told me ages ago that if you got an important part in the theatre we’d be in clover-’ Marco has begun but only to be immediately interrupted.

‘Don’t rub it in! It was sheer prejudice which got Maria the part of Lady Macbeth instead of me,’ Arabella had said hotly. ‘So now you jolly well choose, Marco Bodt: a pauper’s existence on our own or a life pampered luxury with Pixis. And since it would be me who had to put up with him day _and_ night, I don’t see why you should even be asked which you would prefer.’ She had looked sideways at her son through her thick, curling black lashes. ‘I’ve told him that _if_ I agree to marry him it will be what you might call a marriage of convenience. I shall have my own room, and though we shall share the same name I will be like a – a sister to him. Or a housekeeper. Do you understand Marco? He’s offering me a way out of my difficulties and expects nothing in return, save for the duties a housekeeper would perform. Of course he hopes I will become truly fond of him as time goes by, but…’ 

But Marco has heard enough. ‘Just because you aren’t a good enough actress to earn decent salary, that doesn’t mean I have to suffer!’ he had shouted, but even as he did he realised his own helplessness. Until he was old enough to earn his own living, he really had no choice. His father had died some years previously, and he knew of no living relative save his Aunt Vi, his mother’s half-sister, and Aunt Vi’s daughter Hannah, both of whom dislike Arabella and her offspring and would, Marco knew, be more likely to gloat over the Bodt’s misfortune than offer to help.

So when Arabella has said: ‘Oh darling, if I’d got Lady Macbeth… or if you’d agreed to my joining that repertory company last year, when I was offered a place – only you didn’t want to move up to Shiganshina – then we would have managed somehow, but as it is…’

She had held out her arms as she spoke and Marco had hesitated, then heaved a sigh and gone stiffly into his mother’s embrace, saying: ‘But do try to think of a way out, Arabella. Surely there must be something you could do so I wouldn’t have to change schools and houses and everything. I’ll think as well, and perhaps between us…’

‘My dearest little Marco, do you not realise that I’ve been racing my brains for a solution ever since the Garrison Players gave Lady Macbeth to Maria? Things have to change. The rent for this house has gone up again; your school fees are downright ridiculous – even the uniform – but it’s no good talking. It’s either marry Pixis or change our whole way of life, and I do think Mr.P’s offer is extremely generous. However, we’ll both sleep on it and tomorrow we’ll talk about it again.’

So now Marco, finding himself abruptly awake, remembered the quarrel and thought it was a miracle that he had ever managed to get to sleep at all. Indeed, it had taken him quite a while to drop off, but having done so he had slept so deeply for a moment he wondered what on earth could have woken him, apart from a trumpet call, or a brigade of guard marching through the bedroom and exhorting him to get up at once. But judging by the dim light coming between the curtains, it was still the middle of the night. So what had woken him? Marco lay down again, but sleep would not come. Suppose his mother had been so upset by the quarrel that she had failed to lock the door, and burglars had entered the house? The Bodts lived in Sina Avenue, south to Rose Park, for Arabella Bodt believed appearances were important, and if a thief did ransack their home with would be a major expense. Worse, even, than the increase in the rent and schools fees, to say nothing of smart uniform.

Marco took a deep breath, slid out of bed and crossed to the window. They were having a hot summer so the casement was up and the night air, warm and scented, came pleasantly into the room. He peered up and down the street, examining their neat little garden and those of the neighbors on either side, but saw no sign of any living soul except for a cat which appeared on the pavement opposite and made its way down the hill, no doubt on some nefarious business of its own.

Marco squatted on the comfortable bench beneath the open window trying to guess what had disturbed him. Suddenly it came to him. It must have been the from door closing; he guessed that Arabella, to calm herself and forget the quarrel had decided to take a walk before coming up to bed. Marco knew she sometimes did this and was reassured by the thought. But perhaps he really ought to go downstairs and make sure that Arabella was alright, and had locked the door against night-time intruders.

But the annoyance he had felt over his others arbitrary decision to take him away from his school or present him with Pixis as a stepfather still rankled. Arabella had no right to change their whole world without consulting him: well, alright, she had consulted him, but it wasn’t much of a consultation! Live in penury or accept that ugly old man as a stepfather. Drowsily, he decided that was no need to investigate. If his mother needed a period for quiet reflection and had chosen to go walking in the middle of the night, that was her affair. Marco got off the bench and returned to his bed, suddenly conscious of chilled feet and the flimsiness of his cotton night shirt and bottoms. He cuddled down, pulling the sheet up around his ears, and this time, as his body warmed to a delicious glow, he slept.

 

* * *

 

 

Afterwards, he could never decide at a moment his life had truly changed. Had it been when he heard the sound which had woken him from his deep and peaceful sleep? Or had it been the next morning, when nobody woke him, and he was left to wash in the tiny bathroom on his own and struggle into his clothes whilst his heart beat a wild tattoo, for when he had put his head round his mother’s door there was no one there and Arabella did not answer to Marco’s shouts. Galloping down the stairs, he had burst into the kitchen expecting to see his mother turn from the stove with a smile and apologise for not waking him, even as she spooned creamy porridge into two small earthenware bowls, before exhorting her son to eat his breakfast whilst it was still hot.

But the kitchen was empty. Nobody stood by the table, the curtains were still drawn across the windows and when Marco ran to the back door, to check his mother was not in the garden, it was unlocked.

Marco stood in the cold kitchen big tears welled up in his eyes. Arabella must have gone for a walk, and something must have happened to her! Suppose she had fallen, or been attacked by some wicked person intent on stealing her fine gold chain with the locket, or her think little wedding ring, who had left her unconscious in the gutter? Suddenly, their quarrel seemed of no significance; what mattered now was the whereabouts of his beautiful, talented mother. That she was beautiful had never been questioned and now Marco told himself, loyally, that only jealously and spite had prevented Arabella’s talent from carrying her to the very top of her profession.

Marco burst out of the house and looked wildly up and down the street. What should he do? What _could_ he do? He must go to the neighbors, get help and contact the police. He knew he should do one or all of these things, but he was, after all, only thirteen, and had never had to take a decision without consulting an adult in his life. So he returned to the kitchen and simply sat down at the table, put his head on his folded arms and began to whimper in earnest.

When someone knocked on the back door he flew across to it, wrenching it open and almost falling into the arms of the girl standing there. ‘Marco! What on earth’s the matter? You don’t look as though you’re ready for school; aren’t you well?’

Marco stared at his friend, who often called for him so that they might walk to school together.

‘Oh Sasha, it’s you. I thought you were my mother… oh Sash! I heard strange noises last night and now my mother had disappeared!’

‘I ‘spect she ran out of milk or bread or something and has gone down to the shops to buy some more,’ Sasha said cheerfully ‘Why are you in such talking? But for God’s sake make your own breakfast or we’ll be late for school!’

‘But there’s no note; if my mother means to go anywhere she always leaves me a note,’ Marco said, but he was insensibly cheered by the girls easy acceptance of the situation. Perhaps Sasha was right and his mother had simply slipped out to buy some milk; there was a delivery every morning but sometimes it came too late for breakfast. Hastily, Marco went to the pantry, and his hopeful heart dropped into his neat black shoes once more; there was a good three-quarters of a loaf and a whole pint of milk left, besides all the usual things: porridge oats, butter, jam and a couple of the little sweet rolls he always took to school for elevenses.

Turning, he saw that his practical friend had filled the kettle, put it on the stove and lit the gas, and was looking at him expectantly. Then Sasha seized the loaf from its place on the shelf and cut two rather chunky slices, buttered them briskly, and pushed one across to her friend, obviously keeping the larger piece for herself. ‘Come along Marco!’ she said impatiently, scoffing the bread in the process, ‘We’ve not got all day. Your mam will be back in time to get your tea. Did she take the key with her? We don’t want to lock her out.’ Marco crossed the room and checked the hiding place:  no key. He returned to the kitchen, went across the where his school blazer hung on its peg, and checked again. His key was in the pocket. He said as much to Sasha who nodded with satisfaction. ‘There you are then!’ she triumphantly announced. ‘Your mam realised she needed something from the shops, unlocked the back door, tucked the key in her jacket pocket, and went off. That means that when we leave – do eat up Marco, or we’ll be late for class – we can lock the back door and know were not shutting her out.’

Marco stared doubtfully at his friend’s bright, self-confident face. Sasha was almost a year older than he but had the mentality of a ten year old. But she had to be right; his own abrupt awakening in the night must have had an innocent cause. Marco finished his breakfast and tidied round quickly so that his mother would not have to do so on her return, for during the quarrel the previous evening Arabella had claimed, with justice, that her son never helped in the house, made his own bed or offered to do the messages. When she sees the nice tidy kitchen she’ll know she misjudge me, Marco told himself confidently. And I’ll make out tea just as soon as I get home from school; that’ll show her!

‘Come on slow-coach,’ Sasha said, helping herself to another round of bread and butter and shoving it into her mouth rather less delicately. ‘Here’s your blazer.’

‘Thanks,’ Marco said, shrugging it on and locking the back door carefully behind them. ‘What’s our first subject Sash? Oh, _not_ Biology! I didn’t learn that diagram – Mum and I had a bit of a disagreement – but if you’ll help me when we’re on the tram I’ll get it lodged in my brain somehow, before Shadis asks awkward questions.’

When Marco returned home from school later that day, however, it was to find a deputation from the theatre awaiting him outside the house in Sina Avenue. The manager, Darius Zackly, Rico Brzenska the wardrobe mistress, Mr. Hannes, who was a member of the chorus, and Ian Dietrich, the theatre’s leading man, had all come along. They wanted to know if Arabella was ill because there had been a matinee performance that day and she had neither arrived at the theatre nor sent a message to say she was unwell. Marco nearly fainted, but fortunately Sasha was with him and between the two of them they explained the little they knew.

Arabella’s colleagues gazed at one another before saying that the police must be informed and ordering Marco to unlock the door so they could search the house to see if there were any clues as to why on earth their bit-part player and assistant stage manager should suddenly disappear. Only the wardrobe mistress seemed to realise that this was a body blow for Arabella’s son. ‘You can’t stay here tonight, chuck,’ she said kindly. ‘Not all by yourself, at any rate. Got any relatives, have you? You could move in with ‘em for a few days just till your mam turns up again, which she’s bound to do.’

‘I don’t know,’ Marco said doubtfully. ‘I’ve got an aunt and cousin that live up in Trost, but I don’t know them very well. Couldn’t I – couldn’t I stay here, if Sash’s mum will let her stay with me? My mother can’t have gone far. Oh I wonder… does anyone know where Mr Pixis lives? She – she was talking about marring him, thought I can’t believe she’d really do it. But she might have gone to his house to talk things over, I suppose.’

‘She could have gone anywhere, lighting out without a word to a soul,’ Ian Dietrich said irritably, and Marco saw the wardrobe mistress give him an angry look and flap a hand to shut him up. Ian, however, was clearly more annoyed than worried. ‘Typical of a bloody woman to bugger off without a word to anyone. Arabella’s got a contract, the same as the rest of us, but if she’s prepared to let us down in mid-run…’ he turned angrily to Marco. ‘Do you mean that stage-door Jonny? He’s got a service flat in the city centre. I went there once, so I’ll nip round and hear what he has to say. If she really means to marry him, though… to let us down without a word…’

Now it was the manager’s turn to scowl at Ian. ‘She’s never let us down before, and I see no reason why you should think the worst,’ he said bitterly. ‘Just you mind your tongue Ian Dietrich, or it’ll be you searching for a company prepared to take you on, because you can say goodbye to the Garrison Players.’

The man muttered something along the line of ‘That’ll be your loss’ but said nothing more, and Hannes cut in before more acid comments could be exchanged. ‘I’ll go to the flat, find out what Mr Pixis knows,’ he said. ‘If Arabella’s not there and he can’t help us, I suppose I’d better take Marco up to his aunt’s house, since he can’t possible stay here alone, though I’m sure Arabella will be home before dark. I’ll pack a bag with the boy’s night things and that and leave a note for Arabella, explaining what we’ve done.’ He turned to Marco and gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Your mam will be home tomorrow, sure as check,’ he said. ‘I’m rare fond of Arabella, ‘cos I’ve known her these past six years, and to my knowledge she’s never done a mean thing or let anyone down before, just like your father.’ He glared at Ian, then ruffled Marco's hair. ‘Come and help me pack your bag with a few bits and pieces to last you till your mam gets home.’ He then turned to the rest of the players. ‘You’ll do the necessary? I’m sure Arabella will be back tomorrow, but just in case, the scuffers ought to be told, and the neighbours…’ He glanced uneasily at Marco. ‘Now don’t you worry, chuck, it’s just a precaution.'

So saying he led the way into the house and let Marco take him up to his bedroom where the two of them packed a bag with rather more clothing than Marco thought necessary, but, as his new friend pointed out, you could never tell what you, might need until you needed it. As they crossed the room, Marco took one last look around him and suddenly realised that he was saying farewell to his own little room, for at least a while. He would have to share not only his cousin’s bedroom, but maybe his belongings as well. He was also fully aware that his aunt despised her half-sisters feckless ways. But then Hannah and Aunt Vi were not beautiful or talented, Marco reassured himself; they were just ordinary, as he was. Nevertheless he lingered in the bedroom doorway and, on impulse, ran back into the room and snatched the beautiful old-fashioned looking glass, with its gilt cherubs of swags of gilded fruit, from its hook on the wall.  He loved that little mirror, the one his father bought his mother before he passed away, and told himself it would be safer with him than in an empty house. He tucked it into the top of the bag he and Hannes had packed and set off, leaving the only home he had ever known behind him.

Though he did not know it, he would never again sleep in that cosy little bed, or bask in the solitude of his pleasant room. In fact, his life would never set foot in that house ever again.

 

* * *

 

For the first few weeks of his sojourn in Amour Close, Marco was so unhappy and so bewildered that nothing seemed real. Arabella neither returned nor got in touch, and Mr Pixis had been as puzzled – and upset – as Marco himself. He felt though he were enclosed in a glass case, through which he could see people and movement, but could make no sense of what was said. He had terrifying dreams in which he saw Arabella’s body floating in the dock, or cast up by the sidewalk after a mugging. He began to see his mother – or someone very like her – in the street and would run in pursuit, sometimes even following a woman on to a tram or a boat, only to realise, with sickening disappointment, that this was yet another stranger whose resemblance to Arabella was so slight that he wondered how he could have made such a mistake.

Things simply grew worse when Mr Pixis, saying ruefully that he had always known Arabella was too good for him, left the city, whilst the police stopped being comforting and simply said that he must remain with his aunt in the little house in Armour Close until such time as his mother chose to return. To his horror, the contents of the house in Sina Avenue had been sold as Arabella had owed a month’s rent, and now Marco was dependant on Aunt Vi if he needed so much as a tram fare.

But he continued his search. Desperate, he asked everyone in the Avenue if they had seen Arabella that fateful night, and very soon it was commonly accepted, as Mr Pixis had clearly believed, that she had gone off with some man. This cruel slander was backed up when word got around that a handsome young acrobat, working at a larger and more prestigious theatre in the city, had disappeared on the same day as Arabella. Perhaps it was this that persuaded the police, and the Garrison Players, to say that they had done all they could, although they advised Marco to keep on asking around. However, it was soon clear to hear that Arabella’s disappearance was something of a nine-day wonder, and the nine days were up.

Because he was living in a nightmare, the attitudes of his aunt and cousin did not bother him at first, but gradually it was borne upon him that his mother’s half-sister had cared nothing for the younger boy. He began to realise that Aunt Vi and Hannah actually resented him, hard enough he tried to be useful, and his unhappiness was so intense that he would have run away, save that he had nowhere to run. He would simply have to endure until he was old enough to leave Armour Close. Then he would concentrate on searching for his mother, because was sure he had a better chance of finding Arabella once he was able to leave his aunt’s malignant influence. He knew Aunt Vi did not believe her half-sister would ever return.

Perhaps because Aunt Vi was much older than Arabella, the two woman had not really known one another very well. Arabella had taken Marco to see his aunt and his cousin perhaps twice a year, once at Christmas and once in summer, but had never attempted any sort of friendship. She had explained to Marco that their mother had been a gentle soul, but that her first husband had been totally different from her second. Vi’s father had been a warehouseman and a bully, and Arabella had confined in her son that when he was killed in an industrial accident his gran must have heaved a sigh of relief. ‘She couldn’t stand up to him; she wasn’t that sort of person,’ she had said. ‘But despite the life he had led her, your gran – my mum – was still a very pretty woman. Then John Saunders fell in love with her and they got wed; I was their only child and your aunt thought I was spoilt rotten.’ She had sighed. ‘Compared to the way Vi had been brought up, I guess I was. The thing is, though, it didn’t make for a happy relationship between her and myself, so I wasn’t sorry when she married and moved away.’

The young Marco had nodded his comprehension. He had seen the spiteful glances cast at his mother when they met his aunt, had heard the muttered comments, indicating that Vi thought Arabella was what she called toffee-nosed, too big for her boots, and considered herself above ordinary folk.

And so she might, because she _was_ better than others, the young Marco had thought rebelliously. Arabella was not just pretty, she was very beautiful. She had a great mass of curly ash black hair, skin like cream caked with distinctive freckles and the most enormous blue eyes, the very colour of the forget-me-not flowers she loved. And those eyes were framed by curling black lashes whilst her eyebrows, two slender arcs, were black as well.

Aunt Vi, on the other hand, was short and squat, with sandy hair and a round, harsh face, for she took after her father, whereas Arabella’s looks seemed to have come from their mother. Marco had loved the fact of following looks from his mother and practically was convinced to be the younger and boyish exact version of her, bar his hazel eyes – which he got from his father. His mother had always said ‘You’re going to be a real little handsome one of these days; you’ll knock me into a cocked hat, so you will.’

But Marco had no desire to knock anyone into anything. He had no urge to be an actor, thought he admired his mother tremendously, and as proud of her. However, it was one thing to be proud of someone, and quite the other to wish to emulate them. Marco’s own ambitions were far less exotic. He wanted to be a writer of books and had already hidden away in his bedroom cupboard a number of wonderfully imaginative stories. To be sure, these stories were often connected with the theatre – perhaps one day he would turn them into plays – but wherever his writing ended up, it was his secret hope for the future.

Now, though, nothing was important but to find Arabella and escape from the horrors of life in Armour Close, for after the next few days, during which Aunt Vi and Hannah had pretended anxiety for his mother and affection for himself, they began to show their true colours. They had disliked Arabella and now they disliked her son, besides resenting his presence in the dirty, neglected little house. He was forced to sleep in a creaking and smelly brass bedstead in the same room as his cousin Hannah, who was a year older than he, though they were now in the same class at the council school, for Hannah was slow-witted and Marco was bright. It was lucky that the two of them were able to have beds to themselves, however; fat Aunt Vi took up more than her fair share of the house – she kept promising to buy a better bed, since she had sold Marco’s beloved mirror, but so far had failed to do so – and grumbled every night that her bleedin’ sister might have taken her horrible brat with her when she ran off.  Marco tried to ignore such jibes, but when he had nightmares he soon learned to slip out of bed and go down to the kitchen, for his cries woke his aunt he would speedily find himself being soundly slapped, whilst his aunt shouted that he was selfish little bastard to disturb folk who had been good enough to take him in.

Another treat was that he would be sent to an orphanage, but Marco thought as long as he was useful he need not fear such a fate. Hannah was lazy and spoilt, encouraged by her mother never to do her share around the house, and very soon Marco got all the nastiest jobs. So when his aunt pretended her young half-sister had dumped her child and gone off just to annoy them, Marco said nothing, deciding that remark was too stupid to even merit a reply.

The members of the cast at the theatre had done their best to persuade the police, and anyone else who had interested, that Arabella Bodt was not the sort of woman to simply walk out on her colleagues and friends, particularly not on her son. But unfortunately the police had felt it incumbent upon them to visit Aunt Vi and had gained a very different picture of the missing woman there. 

‘She’ll ha’ gone off with that young feller she’s been seeing, the acrobat, you mark my words,’ her aunt had assured everyone. ‘Oh aye, a right light-skirt, our Arabella.’

For a few moments anger had driven Marco out of his glass case, and he had shouted at his aunt that this was a wicked falsehood. The Garrison Players had agreed that they were sure their fellow actor had had nothing to do with any young man, save Pixis, who could scarcely be described as young. It was he who had discovered that rival company’s acrobat had also gone missing, leaving his lodgings and the variety show on the very day that Arabella had disappeared.

Furious, Marco had assured anyone who would listen that his mother would never have left him to go off with a man, but though he knew, with utter certainty that his mother would never have willing deserted him, he stopped repeating his conviction. He felt life was stacked against him, that the harder he tried, the less convincing he became. So he retreated into his glass case and simply waited.

After the first month of bewildering misery, Marco had stopped expecting the door to open and his mother to reappear. He had forced himself to face up to the fact that something had happened to keep Arabella from him, and when spiteful remarks were made by Vi, indicating that Arabella had deliberately landed her with her unwanted son, he simply folded his lips tightly and said nothing. What, after all, was the point? He and the cast of the theatre had tried hard enough, heaven knew, to make the authorities take Arabella Bodt’s case seriously, but with little success. The police had gone over the house with a fine-tooth comb, searching for any clue to Arabella’s disappearance or evidence of foul play; there had been none. They had asked Marco if any clothing was missing, but he could not say. Arabella’s wardrobe bulged with garments; for all her son knew, she could have taken a dozen outfits without him being any the wiser. In fact, he could not even remember what his mother had been wearing that last evening.

Only one small indication, several weeks after Arabella’s disappearance, caused people to raise their brows and become a little less certain that she had gone of her own free will. One dark night, Marco was woken from a deep slumber by someone shaking his shoulder speaking in a rough, kindly voice.

‘What’s up, me lad? Good thing it’s a fine night, but if you asks me them clouds up there mean business.’ The hand of his shoulder gave a little squeeze. ‘Lost you way to the privy, chuck? My goodness I know it’s not as cold as last night, but you’ve got bare feet and the road is awful rough, and there was you walking down the middle of the carriageways though you’d never heard of trams or horses and carriages…’

Marco completely bewildered, opened sleep-drugged eyes and stared about him. In the bright moonlight everything looked very different; the shadows black as pitch, the moonlight dazzling white. He looked down at his feet and saw that they were dirty. Then his eyes travelled up his white cotton night suit and across to the man bending over him. He was a policeman, quite young, and his expression was puzzled. ‘Where’d you come from, chuck? I don’t know as I recognise you. How did you get here?’

Marco’s brows knitted; how had he come here? Where was here anyhow? He shook his head. ‘I dunno,’ he mumbled. ‘Where am I? It doesn’t look much like Armour Close to me.’

The policeman hissed under his breath. ‘Armour Close?’ he said incredulously. ‘Is that where you come from, lad?’ He stood back and Marco looked up into his face properly for the first time. He was young, and has a trustworthy sense around him. But he was giving his shoulder another gentle shake and repeating the question: ‘Have you come from Armour Close?’

Marco looked wildly about him, but could recognise nothing. Reluctantly, he nodded. ‘I suppose I must’ve walked to wherever we are now,’ he said slowly. ‘Only I must have done it in my sleep because I don’t remember anything. I guess I was searching for my mother; she’s disappeared. Only I know she’s still alive somewhere and needing me.’ 

The policeman stared, then nodded slowly. ‘Oh aye, you’ll be Arabella Bodt’s son. Well, you won’t find her here, kiddo, so I guess I’d best take you back home again. You live up Avenue don’t you?’

Marco heaved a sigh, realising suddenly that he was terribly tired and wanted nothing more than his bed. Even a miserable little eight inches of a mattress, which was all he managed to get in Vi’s house, would be preferable to standing in the cold moonlight whilst he tried to explain to a total stranger on why he no longer lived up the Avenue.

But explain he must, of course, and managed to do so in a few quick words. The scuffer pulled a doubtful face. ‘That’s well off my beat, chuck, so perhaps the best thing will be for the pair of us to walk back to the station. The sarge is a good bloke; he’ll get you a cup of tea and see that someone – probably me – takes you home. I reckon there’ll be a fine ol’ to-do in Armour Close when they find you’re missing.’

They carried out the policeman’s suggestion, and as he had assumed he was told to accompany Marco back to his aunt’s house. First though, because of the chill of the night, he wrapped the boy in a blanket and sat him on the saddle of his horse so that he was ridden home in some style, and for the first time in many weeks he felt that somebody cared what became of him.

They reached the house to find the back door standing open, but soon it became clear that he had not been missed. The policeman, who had told him his name was Levi, was rather shocked and wanted to wake the household, but Marco begged him not to do so and he complied, though only after he promised to visit the police station the next day to discuss what had happened. ‘For we can’t have young boys wandering barefoot in the streets, clad only in night clothes,’ he told him. ‘I’m on duty tomorrow from three in the afternoon so you’d do your best come to the station around four o’clock; I’ll see you there.’ He said, before saluting Marco on arm stretched across his chest and the other tucked behind his back. Marco slipped into the house, and before closing the door looked out to the policeman ‘Oh and kiddo! Wash your damn feet. They’re filthy!’ he grinned and turned away, as Marco gently closed the door behind him, and went up to bed. Hannah moaned as creaking noises spurted when Marco climbed into bed, but then fell immediately asleep once more and made no comment when the family awoke the following day.

Marco, usually the most eager of pupils, sagged off school and went straight to the theatre, because he wanted at least one member of the cast to hear about his weird experience, a desire that was fully justified by the excitement his story engendered.

‘If you walk in your sleep, duck, then it’s quite likely your mam did as well,’ Miss Brzenska informed him. ‘Runs in the families that does, sleepwalkin’ I mean. In times of stress some folk can go miles; I’ve heard of women catching trams or boats even when they’s sound asleep and should be in their beds. If your mam was loose on the streets, someone could’ve taken advantage.’ She gave Marco a jubilant hug. ‘Maybe we’re getting somewhere at last. You’re a lucky thing it were a scuffer what found you. He’ll know full well you didn’t make nothing up and maybe they’ll start searching again. Oh, if your mam’s here to be found well find her, don’t you fret!’

But the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into month, and both dreams and nightmares grew rarer. The picture of Arabella which Marco kept inside his head never faded, but Marco’s clothes grew jaded and dirty whilst hope gradually receded, though it never disappeared altogether.

Levi, the policeman, became a friend and Marco knew it was he who was responsible for notices which appeared around the city asking for information as to the whereabouts of Arabella Bodt, the beautiful actress who had charmed the citizens of Jinae whenever she appeared on stage. The cast, too, clubbed together to pay for notices in the papers, begging anyone with information of Arabella’s whereabouts to come forward. They might have enquired also for the young acrobat, but since it seemed he had left the theatre under a slight cloud, and Marco objected vociferously to any linking of his mother’s name with his, they did not. Gradually, Marco began to accept the terrible change in his circumstances until it was almost as though he had two lives. The first one, a life of pleasure and luxury, was gone for ever; the second one, of penury and neglect, had come to stay, at least until he could claw his way out of the hateful pit into which he had been dragged.

There had been many advantages to life he had lived in Sina Avenue, and very few indeed to the one he now endured. His cousin Hannah occasionally showed signs of humanity, appearing to want if not friendship at least mutual tolerance, but Marco ignored such overtures as were offered. He became, almost without knowing it, a sort of male Cinderella, a general dogsbody, belonging to no one and therefor ordered about by everyone. He was not even sure that he cared particularly; why should he? He had a strong will, however, and beneath all his outward meekness there gradually blossomed a determination to succeed. He felt he was just marking time, waiting for something wonderful to just happen. So he continued to work conscientiously at school, made no objection when his clothes grew shabbier, the food on his plate shrank to the leftovers no one else wanted, and his share of the housework grew heavier and heavier. Once or twice Hannah, who wasn’t such a bad creature after all, gave him a hand, or put in a word for him; sometimes even stole food for him, but by and large. Had he realised it, Marco was playing a waiting game. Arabella Bodt, he reminded himself half a dozen times a day, had disliked her half-sister, and would have moved heaven and earth rather than have her son live in the dirty, dilapidated house in Armour Close. If Arabella could see her son now, pale, ditty, always hungry and bitterly overworked, she would tell her miserable half-sister what she thought of her and whisk Marco back off to the Avenue and the life they had both enjoyed.

But that time had not yet come, and the weeks continued to turn into months until at last it was a whole year, and hope which had brightened the eyes of the Garrison Players grew dim. Then the acrobat returned. He told anyone that was interested that he had got a job with the circus for the remainder of the summer season and then gone to act in a panto and had met and married one of the chorus to their mutual pleasure, thought this romantic narrative was slightly tempered by the fact that the chorus girl had just announced she would be having a baby before Christmas.

Folk who had been convinced that Arabella had fled with the acrobat had to eat their words, but by now, few people thought twice about it. Marco, who had never believed it anyway, was shocked by his own lack of surprise; why should he be surprised indeed? But perhaps it was then that little by little Marco’s confidence in his mother’s return began to trickle slowly away. He thought afterwards that it bled away, as if from a horrible wound which would not heal, and the worst thing was that he could do nothing about it. He knew he should fight against the way his aunt treated him, he knew he should tell somebody – Levi, or one of his teachers, or some other responsible adult – but he was too weary. Money was short as the Depression bit deeper and deeper. If you argued about the price of a simple apple in the market the stallholder would throw the Depression in your face. If you chopped kindling, ran messages, or carted heavy buckets of water, where once a few coppers would be pressed into your hand, now you would be lucky to be given half-a-penny, or maybe a cut off a homemade loaf with a smear of margarine. Yes, times were hard, and if it hadn’t been for Jean…


	2. The Kirstein Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco meets a new friend - one of the mischievous Kirstein boys named Jean.

‘Bodt! Drat the boy, where’s he got to?’

Marco, who was awaiting his turn to kick the ball being expertly twirled by two of the older boys, stood up and headed to the steps of Number Six, upon the top one of which his Aunt Vi stood. He hung back a little, however, for his aunt’s expression was vengeful, and even halfway across the paving Marco could see her hand preparing for slap.

‘Yes Aunt?’ he said, knowing that it would annoy Vi if he spoke nicely; his aunt would have preferred impudence so she could strike out with a clear conscience. Not that she would hesitate to hit her nephew if the fancy took her, as Marco knew all too well. Aunt Vi waited for him to get closer, and when he failed to move to swell indignation, even her pale sandy hair seeming to stand on end.

‘Come _here_ I say!’ she shouted, her voice thin and spite. ‘Why can’t you ever do as you’re told, you lazy little bastard? There’s your poor cousin sick as a cat, smothered in perishin’ spots, and instead of giving me a hand to nurse her, you’re off a-pleasurin’. Considering it was you give my poor girl the measles…’

‘She might have caught it from anyone.’ Marco protested.

‘No; it were bloody well you what passed them on,’ his aunt said aggressively. ‘Why, you were still a-scrawpin’ and a-scratchin’ at the spots when my poor Hannah began to feel ill. And now she’s been and gone and thrown up all over her bed and the floor, so since it’s your bleeding fault, you can just get up those stairs and clean up.’ She grinned spitefully as her nephew approached the front door, and scowled as the boy looked pointedly at her right hand.

‘If you so much as raise your arm you can clear up the mess yourself,’ Marco said bluntly ‘When I was sick and ill you never brought me a cup of water, but you expect me to wait on Hannah. Well, I won’t do it if you so much as touch me, and if you try anything else I’ll tell the police.’

It would be idle to pretend that the spiteful look left on his aunt’s face, but she moved to one side and made no attempt to interface as Marco squiggled past. Marco had recently discovered that his aunt did not want anything to do with the police, and though mention of Levi’s name might not save him from all his aunt’s wrath, it certainly made Vi think twice before hitting him without reason.

But right now, he had work to do and if his aunt had bothered to use her brain she might have realised that Marco was perfectly willing to clear up the mess. Not only because he shared the room with Hannah, but also he thought he and Hannah were getting on slightly better. Whilst Marco himself had the measles Hannah had brought food up to him occasionally, and had insisted that his cousin should have a share of anything soft that was going. Thanks to Hannah, Marco had kept body and soul together with bread and milk. Now Marco was actually quite happy to do as much for his cousin, so he went into the kitchen, poured water from the kettle into a bucket, a scrubbing brush and a bar of strong yellow soap and hurried upstairs. And it was nowhere near as bad as he had feared; the bed seemed to have escaped altogether, and though Hannah, lying back on her pillows, was clearly still feeling far from well, it was the work of a moment for Marco to clean the floor and to grin cheerfully at his cousin. ‘Awful isn’t it?’ he said ‘The first three days are the worst, but then you begin to realise you ain’t going to die after all.’ He stood the bucket down by the door and sat on the sagging brass steel bedstead. ‘Poor ol’ Hannah! But at least you’ll get all sorts of nice things once you feel a bit better; I had no exist on bread and milk. No wonder I were weak as a mouse and could scarcely climb the stairs.’

Hannah sniffed. ‘You were lucky to get bread and milk,’ she said sullenly. ‘Mam wanted to give you bread and water; said milk were too rich for the likes of you…well, conny onnie was, at any rate.  So if it weren’t for me sneekin’ a spoonful on to your bread and water you’d likely still be in bed and covered in spots.’ She pulled a face. ‘And aren’t you the lucky one? When you had measles it was term time so you missed school, but me, I got ‘em on the very first day of the summer holidays.’ She glared at her cousin. ‘I tell you, you’re lucky you even had pobs.’

‘You’re probably right and I’m real grateful to you,’ Marco said. ‘But if you don’t mind me sayin’ so Hannah, your mam isn’t very sensible, is she? When I were ill and couldn’t clean or cook or scrub, she had to do all my work whilst you got the messages and prepared the meals. You’d have thought she’d be keen to get me back on my feet, and that would have happened a good deal quicker if I’d had some decent grub now and then.’ He sighed ‘Sometimes the smell of food comin’ up the stairs tempted me to go down and ask for a share – like Oliver Twist – but I guessed I’d only get a clack around the ear and I could without that.’

He waited, half expecting his cousin to react angrily, for though Hannah must know how badly her cousin was treated neither of them ever referred to it aloud. Now, however, Hannah gave Marco a malicious smile. ‘Your mam spoiled you when you lived in the Avenue, made sure you got the best of everything going,’ she said. ‘And my mam give me the best on what’ on offer; you can’t blame her for that.’ Her eyes had been half closed, but now they opened fully and fixed onto Marco’s freckled face. ‘You’re and extra mouth to feed; Mam’s always saying so, neither you nor your perishing missing mother contributes brass farthing to this house. You don’t pay any of the rent, not a penny towards messages, so don’t you grumble about my mam, because you’re just a burden!’

This was said with such spite that Marco’s eyes rounded. He had always supposed that Hannah was jealous of him because she was encouraged to be so by her mother. Aunt Vi knew that Marco was a good deal cleverer than Hannah and found this alone difficult to forgive. But now Hannah had made it plain that she resented her cousin on her own account, so to speak. Or perhaps it was just the measles talking? Marco hoped so, but got off the bed and headed for the door, telling himself that he did not have to stop and listen to his cousin’s outpourings. It was true that he did not contribute to the rent of Number Six, but he thought indignantly that on all other counts his cousin was way out. He washed and scrubbed, dusted and tidied, peeled potatoes and prepared vegetables, and sometimes even cooked them, though usually under his aunt’s supervision. However, this was still far more than any other boy, definitely that of his age. When he earned a penny or two by running messaged or chopping kindling, he was usually forced to hand over the small amount of money he had managed to acquire, whereas Hannah got sixpence pocket money each week, and quite often extra pennies so that she might attend the Saturday rush at the Wings cinema, or buy herself a bag of homemade toffee from the Hanji’s Emporium on Rouge Road. With his hand on the doorknob, Marco was about to leave the room when a feeble voice from the bed stopped him for a moment. ‘I’m thirsty,’ Hannah whined. ‘I want a drink. Mam went up to the terrace to get advice on how to look after me and Nurse said I were to have plenty of cool drinks; things like raspberry cordial, or lemonade. Get me both, then I’ll choose which drink.’

The words ‘Get them yourself’ popped into Marco’s head and were hastily stifled; no point in giving his cousin ammunition which she might well on to her mother, who would see that Marco suffered for his sharp tongue. Instead, he pretended he had not heard and went quietly out of the room, shutting the door on Hannah’s peevish demand that she bring the drinks at once… at once, did he hear?

When Marco entered the kitchen he found his aunt sitting at the table with last night’s newspaper spread out before her and a mug of tea in hand. Marco contemplated saying nothing about raspberry cordial or lemonade – after all, his aunt had said that she herself intended to be her daughter’s principle nurse – but realised would be unwise to irritate the older woman any further. Whilst Vi’s sudden protective interest in Hannah lasted, which would not be for very long, Marco guessed, she would take offense at any tiny thing, and when Aunt Vi when Marco headed for the hills. He went outside and emptied his bucket down the drain, then walked down to the pump and rinsed it out before returning to the kitchen. ‘Hannah wants a drink, either raspberry cordial or lemonade,’ he said briefly. ‘Did you buy ‘em when you were out earlier, Aunt Vi? If so, I’ll pour some into a jug and take it upstairs… unless you would rather do it yourself?’

He had not meant to sound so sarcastic, but realised he had done so when his aunt’s hard red cheeks began to take on a purplish tinge. Hastily, he went to the pantry and scanned the shelves until he spotted a bottle of raspberry cordial. Pouring some into a jug, he mixed it with water, and making sure first that his aunt’s back was turned, took a cautious sip. It was delicious. The nicest thing he had tasted over the past twelve months, he told himself dreamily, heading for the stairs. Lucky, lucky Hannah! When I had the measles all I got was water to drink and old newspapers from weeks ago to read. Earlier he had seen a big pile of comics beside Hannah’s bed and had offered to read them to his cousin. Hannah, however, clearly thought this a ruse on Marco’s part to get the comics and had refused loftily. ‘You can’t read pictures,’ she had said. ‘And comics is all about pictures, not words. Go off and buy yourself comics if you’re so keen on ‘em, ‘cos you ain’t having mine!’

Upstairs, balancing jug and glass with some difficulty, Marco got the bedroom door open and glanced cautiously across to the bed. Hannah was a pretty girl, ginger-haired and dark-lashed with large leaf green eyes and a neat little nose surrounded by pale freckles. But today flopped against her pillows, she looked like nothing so much as a stranded fish. Her skin was so mottled with spots that she could have been an alien from outer space; her straight ginger hair, wet with sweat, lay simply on the pillow, and when she opened her eyes to see what her cousin had brought in, the lids were so swollen that she could scarcely see from between them. Marco, having only just recovered from the measles himself, could not help pang of real pity arrowing through him. Poor Hannah. When she felt better she would be given abundance all the things that Marco had longed for when he himself was recovering, but right now no one knew better than he how Hannah was suffering. Accordingly, he set the glass down on the lopsided little bedside table and poured out some of the delicious raspberry cordial. Hannah heaved herself up in the bed, picked up the glass. She took a sip, then another, then stood the glass down again. ‘Thanks, Marco,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the nicest drink in the world, but I can’t drink it!’ Oh, how I wish I were well again.’ She looked fretfully up at her younger cousin. ‘Why does it taste so sticky and sweet? I so want to drink it, but if I do…if I do…’

‘Poor old Hannah. I felt just the same,’ Marco assured his cousin. ‘Just you cuddle down, and try to sleep. When you wake up you’ll feel better, honest to God you will. Why, tomorrow morning you’ll be eating your breakfast porridge and drinking cups of tea and telling Aunt Vi that you fancy stew for your dinner.’ He smiled with real affection at the girl. ‘You’ll be alright; I told you it’s only bad for the first three days.’

Hannah obeyed, snuggling down into the bed and giving Marco a sleepy smile. ‘You’re all right, Marco Bodt,’ she said drowsily. ‘I’m sorry I was horrid to you, but I’ve never felt this ill before. When you come up to bed I’ll try some lemonade; perhaps that will go down easier.’

Marco did not point out that he would not be coming up to bed for a good many hours, since I was only just eleven o’clock in the morning. In fact, seeing how his cousin tossed and turned, he had already decided to sleep on one of the kitchen chairs that night as he kept being disturbed. After all, he had done so through his on attack of the measles, since Aunt Vi had turned him out of the bedroom at ten every night and told him not to return until breakfast time the next morning.  She seemed to think this would prevent her daughter from catching the infection, but of course time had proven her wrong.

Marco trod softly down the stairs and entered the kitchen, saw that his aunt was snoozing, and let himself out of the front door and back into the sunshine of Armour Close. The girls were still twirling skipping ropes and the boys were bouncing a football across the streets. Marco had wondered whether to go over and ask to join in, but decided against it. The measles, and his enforced diet of bread and milk, had made him lethargic, unwilling to exert himself. He had been aware of a great lassitude when he had climbed the stairs the second time, balancing the jug of raspberry cordial and the glass.

Now he decided that since no one else cared what became of him he would have to start looking after himself, so he strolled slowly along the length of the Close and for the first time it had occurred to him that it was a very odd little street indeed. On his left were half a dozen terraced houses, each boasted three steps and a tiny garden plot. Most householders ignored the latter, but some had painted solitary rose, a handful of marigolds or a flowering shrub. However, the houses on his right were not terraced but semi-detached; bigger, more substantial. Rumour had it that whilst the even numbers two to ten had to use the common pump against the end wall of the Close, the odd numbers one to nine had piped water, though all the houses had outdoor privies in their back yards. Marco frowned. He had never seriously considered the Close before, but now it seemed to him that it was downright odd to have such different sorts of houses in one very short street. And perhaps the oddest thing of all was the wall at the very end of Armour Close. It must be twenty or twenty-five feet high and blackened by soot, but what was it doing there? Why had they chosen to block off the Close with what looked like a warehouse or factory wall. Yet, Marco knew that it could be neither; had there been a building which people worked so near sounds of movement, or people talking when they took their breaks. And the wall was so high and engraved. Because of it, the inhabitants of Armour Close could not see the setting sun, though its rays poured on the rest of the area. For the first time, a spark of curiosity raised itself in Marco’s mind. What was the wall there for? Why did no one ever mention what was on the other side of the great mass of bricks which chopped Armour Close off short? Had it once been all the houses, or factories for that matter? He could not say, but the imp of curiosity had been roused and would not go away. Useless to ask his aunt, who never answered his questions anyway. But there must be someone who could explain the presence of that enormous wall. 

He was standing, hand on hips, gazing up with watering eyes the topmost line of bricks and wondering what it hid – and for that matter, why the road should be called Armour Close. ‘Why particularly ‘Armour’. Does this street need protecting from someone or something? Maybe that’s why the wall is here…’

‘You don’t know nothing bud.’ The voice cutting across his thoughts, made Marco jump several inches. He had not realised he had spoken his thoughts aloud, or that anyone was close enough to hear, and, consequently, felt both annoyed and extremely foolish. This, not unnaturally, caused him to turn sharply on the speaker, a boy a similar age to himself, with light brown tufty hair, a thin long jawline, intense light-brown eyes and a taunting grin. 

‘Shut up, you!’ Marco said angrily ‘Trust a stranger to stick his bloomin’ nose in!’

The boy sniggered. ‘If you don’t want nobody to answer, then you shouldn’t ask questions,’ he said. ‘What you doing anyway? Haven’t you ever seen a wall before? You’re the kid what lives in Number Six, aren’t you? He guffawed rudely. ‘First time I’ve seen you without a bag or basket or without that perishin’ Hannah Diamant gabbing your arm an’ telling you what to do.’ He guffawed again. ‘Slipped your leash have you? Managed to undo your bleedin’ collar?’

Marco glared at him. He knew him by sight, knew he and his parents lived two doors down from his aunt. He was one of a large family of rough, unclothed boys, ranging from the age of eighteen or nineteen down to a baby of two or three.  Many folk did not approve of the Kirstein family and this particular sprig, Marco knew, was reckoned by his aunt – and indeed by Hannah – to be a troublemaker of no mean order. On the other hand he knew that he himself was often accused by Aunt Vi of all sorts of crimes which he had most certainly never committed. Could it be the same for this boy? Marco scowled, chewing his finger. He had not managed to make friends amongst the children in Armour Close, for several reasons. One was despite the fact everyone dislike his aunt, despised her meanness, her spite and her reluctance to help others, they believed her when she told lies about her nephew.  It seemed strange, but Marco supposed that grown-ups, even if they didn’t like each other, tended to take another’s word against that of a child.

Then there was Hannah. She wasn’t all that bad, as Marco acknowledged, but she was an awful whiner, busting into tears the moment she failed to get her own way and telling the most dreadful fibs to get herself out of trouble and somebody else into it. This naturally made her extremely unpopular.

A sharp poke in the ribs brought Marco back to the present, and he turned to the boy by his side, eyebrows climbing. ‘What business it of yours if I stare at the wall? And who are you anyway? I know you’re one of the Kirstein boys – my aunt says you’re all horrid – but I don’t know which one you are.’

The boy grinned, a flash of white teeth in an exceedingly dirty face. ‘I’m Jean, the one my mam calls the turnover. I ‘spect you’ve heard bad things about me, but that’s because we used to have a rather mean dad. But now we’ve got a nice one – a huge feller what could give you a clout hard enough to send you into next week. Not that he has – clouted me, I mean – but I wouldn’t take no chances with a feller as big as the church tower. So I’m a reformed character.’

Marco stared at him, eyes rounding. ‘I’m like that… well, my mother was anyways. She and Aunt Vi had different dads; Aunt Vi’s was a right pig, so when he died and Gran married again, she chose a gentle, loving feller – John Saunders, that was, who was my mother’s father. I never knew my grandparents because they died before I was born, but Aunt Vi blamed my mother for her own hard upbringing. She said my mam was spoiled rotten, never had to raise a finger or contribute anything towards the household expenses, and that’s why she blames me for every perishin’ thing which goes wrong,’ he said, rather breathlessly.

‘Well, I’m blowed!’ Jean remarked. ‘It’s just like my family, too, except there there’re more than two of us. I’m the last of the bad ‘uns; my little brother Kenny is my step-dad’s kid.’

The pair had fallen into step and were strolling along the Close, heading for the main road. ‘Wish I had a little brother or sister,’ Marco said sadly. ‘Not that I wanted one when mum and I lived on the Avenue; we had each other and that was all that mattered.’

‘I heard you and your mam were close,’ Jean acknowledged. He peered down into Marco’s face. ‘Things is a bit different now, ain’t they? I see’d you running errands, pumping water, going up to the wash house with everyone’s dirty clothes… and you’ve got a lot thinner than you were when you first arrived. Reckon they only feed you on odds and ends.’

Marco thought of the plate which would be down in front of him at dinner time: a spoonful of gravy, a couple of small spuds, a bit of cabbage if he was lucky, and that would be all the food he’d get until tomorrow’s breakfast, unless of course he helped himself and risked being called a thief.

But the other boy was looking at him enquiringly, his look half curious, half sympathetic. Marco gave a rueful smile. ‘You’re right there; I get what the rest won’t eat,’ he admitted. He raised his eyebrows, returning look for look. ‘You aren’t exactly Mr. Universe yourself. What did you say your name was?’

‘Jean,’ his companion said. ‘I might be skinny, but I get me fair share of whatever’s going; our mam sees to that. And fellers can always pick up fades from the market, or earn a few pennies sellin’ chips to housewives.’ He looked at Marco, his eyebrows rising. ‘What’s your name? I know your cousin Hannah.’

‘I’m Marco Bodt,’ Marco said shortly. By now they had reached the end of Armour Close and had emerged onto the pavement, which was thronging with people. Women were shopping, children too. Folk were waiting for trams or boats, whilst others sauntered along peering into shop windows and enjoying the warm sunshine. Marco would have turned right, chiefly because he expected Jean to turn left, heading for the city centre, but instead he jerked him to a halt.

‘What say we pal up for a bit, go ‘round together?' He suggested. ‘You’re cousin’s got measles, I’ve heard, so she won’t be out and about for two or three weeks, which means you’ll be all on your lonesome unless you join forces with me.’ He grinned at him and suddenly Marco realised how lonely he _had_ been, and how much more fun the summer would be if he did as this strange boy suggested.

He turned to face him. They were about the same height – perhaps he was an inch or two taller – and now he was looking directly into his face he saw that beneath all the dirt, it wasn’t a bad face at all. His hair was mousey brown, his skin only one or two shades lighter, and he met his regard steadily from a pair of sharp light-brown eyes set beneath straight dark brows. But there was something about his eyes… Marco stared harder, then smiled to himself. His eyes tilted ever so slightly up at the corners, giving him a mischievous look; he rather liked it. But his new friend was jerking his arm, expecting a reply to his last remark, so he grinned at him and nodding so vigorously that his parted black hair swung forward like a thin curtain, momentarily hiding his eyes. ‘That’s a great idea, Jean. We could do all sorts if we could earn a bit of money, and two of us ought to be able to earn more than one. The feller who sells carpets from a market from a market stall will always give a kid a few pence to carry carpet back to a customer’s house. I’m not strong enough to do it alone, and Hannah would never lower herself, but if you and I offered our services…’

Jean grinned delightedly. ‘You’ve got the right idea, pal,’ he said exuberantly. ‘We’ll make a killing while your cousin’s laid up… but what will happen when she’s fit again, hah? I don’t fancy being dropped like a hot potato.’

Marco chuckled. ‘Don’t worry; at the mere mention of earning a few pence by working for it Hannah will come down with a headache, or find some other excuse to let me get on with it alone,’ he assured him. ‘So what’ll we do now?’

‘Ever been to Seaforth Sands?’ It’s grand up there on a fine day like this. If we could earn ourselves a few coppers we could stay out there all day. Can you swim?’

‘I never got taught to...’ Marco blushed ‘Besides, where would I learn? I know there’s a public bath on Rouge Road, but they charge you at least sixpence – maybe a shilling – and anyway, you need a bathing costume to swim there.’

Jean looked almost gazed for a moment, then gave a reassuring smile. ‘I could teach you. And what’s wrong with Scaldy anyhow.’

Marco opened his mouth to make some blighting remark, then changed his mind. Jean was offering friendship, with no strings; the least he could do was to be honest with him. ‘I’ve never heard of Scaldy, whatever it is,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve heard of Seaforth Sands of course, but I wouldn’t have a clue how to get there. You see, when I lived with my mother in Jinae, we hardly ever came to Trost, except for special occasions and that. Why, I couldn’t even find my way to the Pier Head! I’ve heard other kids talking about playing on the chains of the floating bridge, but I don’t even know what that means. You might as well realise, Jean, that all this is strange to me. I know the Historia Park – the boating lake, and the café where they sell you a lemonade and sticky bun for a sixpence – and of course I know the theatres thanks to my mother. But apart from that, I’m a stranger here. Go on, tell me what the Scaldy is.’

Thus challenged, Jean began to explain, then gave up. ‘When does your aunt expect you home?’ he asked. ‘Can you get away for the whole day? If so we’ll do the grand tour and I’ll show you everything as we go. It’ll be easier if you can see what I’m talking about with your own eyes.’

Marco sniggered. ‘I shouldn’t be able to see with anybody else’s eyes,’ he pointed out, and dodged as Jean gave him a friendly punch. ‘I can’t say when Aunt Vi expects me home, but she won’t worry, even if I disappeared like my mother did. So come on, let’s have the grand tour.’

* * *

 

By the end of the momentous day, Marco felt he was now as familiar with the delights of the city as Jean himself. They had visited the Scaldy, just past the bridge. They had watched enviously as other boys small and large ran along the towpath and plunged into the streaming water. Marco had wanted to follow, clad in boxers and vest, but Jean, though he applauded his pluck, had thought it unwise. ‘I don’t think you should swim here, you still don’t know much about it and they can get pretty rough.’ He had assured him, ‘but now you’ve seen it well skip a lecky out to Seaforth Sands. There’ll be a deal of folk there, but if you tuck your trousers up you’ll be able to paddle. After that we’ll go up to the barracks – sometimes the soldiers will chuck a kid a penny or two to buy tobacco for ‘em – and after that…’

After that they had a marvellous day. They went down to the floating road, slipped under the chains, and played at mudlarks. They begged a wooden orange box from a friendly greengrocer and took it back yard, where they chopped it into kindling. Marco divided the pieces into bundles which they sold up and down the road for threepence each, and with the money earned Jean bought a bag of sticky buns. Marco had been diffident about following Jean into his mother’s kitchen, partly because he was shy and feared a rebuff, and partly because he was a little scared of his older brothers, who Aunt Vi was always declaring as dangerously wild and best avoided, but this proved again to be another of his aunt’s spiteful and untruthful comments.  Ted, Reg and Joe were easy-going young men, accepting Marco as their brother’s friend, whilst little Kenny, who was just three, clamoured for him to play with him.

Marco was just thinking how delightfully different Jean’s home life was from his own when the back door opened and Mr Kirstein came in. He was an enormous man, well over six foot tall, with huge hands and feet. Jean had told him that his step-father was an engine driver and Marco would have liked to ask him about his work, but Mrs Kirstein began to lay the table and the older boys disappeared, thought Kenny, the baby, rushed to his father, winding soft little arms about Mr Kirstein’s knees and begging for a shoulder ride.

Marco, all too used to knowing when he was not wanted, thanked Mrs Kirstein for her hospitality and headed for the back door. He almost cut Jean in two by trying to shut it just as he was following Marco outside.

Out in the jigger which ran along the backs of the houses, the two stared at one another. ‘Isn’t he big?’ Marco said. ‘He makes you and your brothers look quite small. Gosh, I wouldn’t like to get a clack from him!’

Jean puffed his cheeks and whistled. ‘You’re right there. He’s got hands like clam shovels. But he’s real good to little Kenny, and Mam says he’s gentle as a lamb. Still an’ all, I try to keep my head down, never give back answers, stay out of the way as much as possible, and do what he says smartly.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘He’s strict, but he’s fair, and much better to our mam that my real dad was, so I reckon I should count me blessings.’

Marco was looking thoughtful. ‘If he’s only your step-dad, why do you have the same name?’ he asked. ‘I thought boys always kept their father’s names?’

‘Oh, my real dad were a right mean old bugger, used to knock Mam about as well as us kids, so when he were killed and Mam married my stepfather she asked us if we’d mind being called Kirstein too, since she thing Reg and Ted were too happy, or even Joe, but I were only a nipper myself and couldn’t see as it made any difference, so I said yes at once and the others came round in the end. So now we’re the Kirstein boys – isn’t that what your aunt calls us?’

By this time the two of them had emerged into Armour Close, and Marco looked towards Number Six, half expecting his aunt to appear in the doorway shouting for him, but the doorstep was deserted, as indeed was the Close itself. Most families would be either preparing or eating their evening meal, so if he wanted to be fed, he would have to go indoors at once and think up some good reason why he had been away all day. He said as much to Jean, who shook his head. ‘You’ve already said they don’t care where you go or what you do, unless they need you, and since you also said your  aunt was staying at home to look after Hannah you don’t even have to invent an excuse. All you have to do is look astonished and say if they needed you why didn’t they call.’

Marco sighed. ‘It’s been the nicest day I’ve had since Mum disappeared,’ he said wistfully. He fished in his pocket, produced his share of the money they had earned, and thrust the pennies into Jean’s hand. ‘You take care of it; my aunt will only nick it if I take it into Number Six. She’ll say I have to pay something towards the rent, or she needs some coal… or any excuse to take it off me.’

Jean accepted the money and shoved it into the pocket of his ragged trousers. ‘Tomorrow, if you get up real early, I’ll show you where I stash my pennies,’ he said, ‘then you can put yours there too and know it’ll be safe.’ He hesitated, then jerked a thumb at the great wall at the end of the road. ‘Remember we were talking about the all earlier? Well, now we know each other pretty well, I’ll take you round t’other side of that wall tomorrow and tell you something I’ve not told another soul.’

‘Tell me now,’ Marco said eagerly. ‘Go on. You’ve told me so much I might as well know the rest. I was sure there was some mystery about that wall as soon as I began to notice it. Go on, Jean, tell me!’

But Jean laughed indulgently, he also shook his head. ‘No chance,’ he said, pulling a grin. ‘It’s like what I told you earlier about the Scaldy; better to see it for you then I have to drive myself half-crazy trying to explain. Tomorrow is quite soon enough.’

‘Oh, but suppose I can’t get away? Marco whined. ‘Suppose my aunt needs me? She’ll only interest herself in Hannah for a bit, then she’ll expect me to dance attendance twenty-four. And then you’ll be sorry you were so mean.’

But Jean only laughed. ‘Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,’ he said infuriatingly. He seized Marco’s shoulder and ran him up three steps to the front door of Number Six. ‘Off you go.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Don’t forget; meet me tomorrow at six in the morning.’

‘Well, I will if I can,’ Marco said. ‘My aunt never gets up before eight o’clock, so maybe I’ll be lucky.’

He left him, turning to give a little wave as he shut the dirty paint-blistered front door behind him. Then he went down the short hallway and into the kitchen. His aunt was sitting by the table eating cake, clearly had her fill of the stew Marco had helped to prepare earlier in the day. She swung her chair round so that she could stare at her nephew. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she said belligerently. ‘I come back after my shopping trip and you was nowhere to be seen. Poor Hannah had shouted herself hoarse, but did you appear? The hell you did! All you thought of was your perishin’ self.’

Aunt Vi continued to upbraid him as though he had done something really wicked, instead of merely being out of hearing when his aunt had called. As soon as he could make himself heard above the barrage of complaints, accusations and name calling, Marco took a deep breath and reminded Aunt Vi that it was _she_ who was supposed to be looking after her daughter. ‘You said _you_ were going to nurse Hannah; don’t you remember?’ Staring into his aunt’s furious face, he saw recollection dawn there and saw, too, how dangerous it was to be right, especially if it made Aunt Vi wrong. He knew he should have reminded himself that a soft answer turned away wrath, but it was too late for that now: he had erred and must pay the price.

‘Well, since you weren’t around when I were dishin’ up you can go supperless to bed,’ Aunt Vi said, her little eyes gleaming malevolently. ‘Now just you go upstairs and see if there’s anything Hannah wants. If there’s nothing you can fetch her, then you can read her the serial story out of _The Girl’s Own Paper_.’

Marco hesitated. He had made a large slice of bread and jam at the Kirstein house and he and Jean had shared some fades from St Nick’s market and a paper of fish and chips from the shop down the street, which meant of course that he was not really hungry at all. However, his day with Jean had put fresh courage into his veins and he decided to be bold for once. He pointed to the blackened pan on the stove. ‘I prepared that before I went out this morning and I’ve had nothing to eat all day,’ he said firmly, though untruthfully. ‘I’ve had measles myself, you know, and it’s left me quite weak. I’m not running up and down stairs at Hannah’s beck and call until I’ve had some proper supper. And a nice hot cup of tea,’ he added defiantly.

Aunt Vi surged to her feet, crossed it to the stove and heaved the pan well back. ‘You ain’t havin’ none of this, not if I have to chuck it out for the perishin’ birds,’ she snapped nastily. ‘Bread and water’s good enough for you; you can help yourself to that if you like.’ 

Marco looked at her. He realised that this was the first time he had ever confronted his aunt and that Vi must be wondering what had got into him, but having made a stand he must not back down unless he wanted to live on bread and water. For a moment, he contemplated cutting himself a large slice of the cake which his aunt had been devouring when he had entered the kitchen, then changed his mind. He had prepared the stew, and had looked forward to having at least a helping of the stuff, so he went to the sideboard, took down a tin plate and held it out wordlessly, almost beneath Aunt Vi’s nose. His aunt began to gobble that he should not get a shred of the delicious stew, but Marco continued to hold the plate and, to his secret astonishment, when their eyes met it was Aunt Vi who lowered hers first. To be sure, she did not ladle any stew onto the plate, but turned away, muttering. Marco heard words like ‘forbid’ and ‘don’t you dare’ and ‘defying me in me own house’ as his aunt stomped back to her chair, picked up the teapot and poured herself another cup of tea, thought her hand trembled so much that tea sprayed out of the pout and puddled on the wooden table. 

Marco could not believe his luck. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he expected it to be Aunt Vi who backed down, but it had happened. He seized the ladle and helped himself to a generous portion, then sat down at the table and began to eat. Halfway through the meal he reached over and cut herself a wedge of bread from the loaf to sop up the last of the gravy, and when he had finished, he went across to the sink and put his dirty plate with the others, whilst Aunt Vi continued to munch cake and stare at him as though she could not believe her eyes.

Marco gave his aunt a big bright smile and headed for the stairs. ‘I don’t suppose Hannah wants anything now, or she would have shouted,’ he said cheerfully. ‘However, a bargain is a bargain; I said I wouldn’t wait on Hannah until I’d had something to eat. Well, now I’ve had a meal, and a good one, so I think I’m strong enough to get up the stairs and see if there’s anything I can do for my cousin.’ As he left the kitchen Marco glanced back at his aunt and had real difficulty in preventing himself from giving a great roar of laughter. Aunt Vi had her hand across her mouth as she shovelled cake into it, and just for a moment she could have modelled for the monkey in the well-known portrayal of _Speak no Evil_. But he managed to contain his mirth until her was well out of hearing.

Upstairs, her cousin was already looking a little less unhappy, though her skin was still scarlet with spots. She had dunked at least one full glass of raspberry cordial, but the stew beside it had scarcely been touched. She looked up Marco entered the room and indicated the plate of stew with a weary hand. ‘Want it?’ she asked in a hoarse whisper. ‘I can’t eat the flamin’ stuff; food makes me feel sick.’ She sat up on one elbow, peering at Marco through swollen eyelids. Where’ve you been all day?’ Mam can’t make the stairs more’n twice in twenty-four hours, she says, and anyways I wanted _you_. She bought the latest copy of _The Girl’s Own Paper_ so’s you could read me the serial story, but you weren’t here.’

Marco sat down on the end of her bed and pulled the magazine towards him. ‘I offered to read you this this morning but you told me comics were pictures and to go away.’

‘So I did,’ Hannah said feebly. ‘But I didn’t mean it, you know that, Marco.’ And anyways, me mam can’t read as well as you. She says her glasses steam up so she misses words out and has hard work to read her shopping list, let alone a magazine story.’ She gave a gusty sigh. ‘I told her to send you up as soon as you come home.’

‘And I told you ma that I needed some food before tackling the stairs again,’ Marco said. ‘She let me have a plate of stew and some bread; I must say it were prime. As for what I’ve been doing all day, you wouldn’t be interested; it was just – just messing around. You know the Kirstein boys? I know your mum doesn’t like them, but they’re alright really. One of them – he’s called Jean – said he’d take me on a grand tour of the area and he showed me all sorts. Do you know, Hannah, there’s a huge art gallery quite near Rouge Road and a marvellous library as well as a museum… oh, there’s all sorts of things I would have never imagined to be here. While you’re laid up I mean to get to know the city as well as he does. Then, when you’re better…’ But Hannah’s interest in her cousin’s doings was already fading.

‘Never mind that. Just you do what my mam says and read me my serial story,’ Hannah commanded. ‘If you want to go around with some perishin’ rough boys, that’s up to you. Oh, and I could do with another drink. Me throat’s that sore, even talking hurts.’ 

Marco stood up, took the almost empty jug and returned to the kitchen. Presently he was back in the bedroom and sitting down on the bed with the magazine spread out on his knees. ‘Ready?’ He said brightly, even though deeply disinterested on the article. ‘Well, Hitch Dreyse is hot on the trail of the mysterious letter, though it is to be hoped that Petra Ral, the heroine, will get to it first. I’ll read on from there.’

Marco enjoyed reading, maybe not this genre of story. However, it was rather chagrined to discover, when his cousin had fallen asleep. That meant re-reading the story the next day and he particularly wanted to go off early with Jean. Still, when Aunt Vi came up to bed he told Marco to sleep in the kitchen, which was all to the good. The clock above the mantel had a very loud tick, and if I pull the curtains back so the early light can come in and I’ll be ready for the off at six, she told herself.

 

* * *

 

It was a pearly summer morning when Marco let himself quietly out of the house. As arranged, Jean was hanging around outside, and he greeted him with a broad grin. ‘Ain’t it a grand day?’ he said. ‘I reckon it’s too good to waste poundin’ the streets and showing you where I stash my pennies, so I’ve took some bread and cheese - Mam won’t mind – and we can catch the number one hundred and four tram out to Karanese and then walk around, and where we can have us dinners and muck about an-’

‘Where’s that?’ Marco interrupted. He could feel excitement flooding through him at the thought of another wonderful day with this new – and knowing – friend, though excitement warred with disappointment. Jean had roused Marco’s curiosity about the other side of the wall and he longed to see it. However, the prospect of a day in the country was almost enough to cause him to forget what he now thought as ‘the mystery of the wall’. After all, the wall would be there probably for the rest of his life, whereas a day out with Jean could be ruined if rain fell heavily, or his aunt discovered his intention and forbade him to leave the house.

But Jean was staring at him; he looked annoyed. ‘What do you mean, where’s that?’ he said rather truculently. ‘Did I just tell you? Karanese District – to the east. It real countryside; there’s streams with tiddlers in, ponds for the ducks and geese, orchards full of apples and pears and that… oh, everything to make the day real special. But if you don’t want to come of course…’

Hastily, Marco hid his curiosity about the wall and assured him that he was mistaken; he wanted to go to Karanese very much indeed. As they trotted along to the tram stop, however, he admitted that is he was out for a whole day again there would undoubtedly be reprisals. ‘But I don’t care,’ he added defiantly. ‘Mostly I’m in trouble for doing nothing, so it’ll be quite a change for my aunt to have a real reason to knock me about.’

‘Knock you about? But you’re not her kid, and you’ve had a real bad time her-‘ Jean was beginning, but Marco was saved the necessity of answering as a number one hundred and four tram drew up beside them. ‘Tell you what,’ he said as they settled themselves on one of the slatted seats, ‘if your aunt treats you bad, suppose we take back something she’ll really like – a sort of bribe – you could say. I know a little old tree what has early apples; someone told me where they are. Suppose we fill our pockets with ‘em? You can give your share to your aunt if you think that’ll sweeten her.’

Marco thought this an excellent idea, and when they got off the tram he chatted to Jean quite happily as they strolled along country lanes whose verges were thick with sweet-smelling spice spires of creamy coloured flowers, and in marshy places with the delicate pale mauve blossoms which Jean told him were called ‘Lady’s smock’.

Once again Marco had a wonderful time. He accompanied Jean to a farmhouse where they bought a drink of milk, and were told they were welcome to take as many apples as they liked from the little tree down by the gate. After they had eaten their bread and cheese, Marco was all set to dam a tiny stream so that he might paddle in the pool me meant to create, when Jean astonished him by saying he felt like a nap.

‘You don’t,’ Marco said scornfully. ‘Naps are for old people. Just you come and help me dam this stream!’ Marco protested.

‘I’m too tired,’ Jean said obstinately. ‘I dunno why, but if I don’t get some sleep I'll not have the strength to walk back to the tram stop. Ain’t you tired Marco?’ As he spoke he had been taking off his ragged pullover and folding it into a pillow, but even as he lay down upon it and composed himself for sleep, Marco jerked his faded shirt up and stared at Jean’s back which had been revealed.

‘Oh Jean, you’ve been and gone and got the bloody measles,’ he said, his voice vibrant with dismay ‘I thought you’d been bound to have had them… but you’ve got them now at any rate. No wonder you’re so perishin’ tired; I reckon I slept for near three days when I first had them, and Hannah’s the same. She couldn’t even stay awake to listen to me reading her serial story.’

Jean sat up, heaved his shirt up and surveyed his spotted skin with a groan of dismay. ‘Oh, hell and damnation, weren’t things to happen right at the start of the summer holidays,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to keep it a secret from me mam, but I doubt it’s possible. I say, Marco, I’m real sorry, but until the spots go I’ll be lucky to escape from the house for ten minutes, let alone ten hours.’

‘Well, I suppose we ought to be counting our blessings because we’ve had two great days,’ Marco assured him. ‘And once you begin to feel better, surely your mam will let you play out? She’s an awfully nice woman and I don’t suppose she’ll want you under her feet for the whole three weeks.’

‘We’ll see. Maybe she’ll let you come in, ‘cos you’ve already had ‘em, and read to me, or just chat,’ Jean said, but he didn’t sound too hopeful. He grinned up at him and Marco saw that already spots were beginning to appear along the thin cheeks. Soon he would be smothered in the blooming things, which meant that he would be unable to fool anyone; one look and he would be driven back to his own home, though Marco thought this was yet another example of the stupidity of adults. When a measles epidemic struck, the sensible thing would to let all the kids catch it. Then the next time it happened they would be safe, since he was pretty sure you couldn’t catch the measles twice. So Marco continued his work of damming the stream and paddled contently whilst Jean slumbered, though they had to make their way back to the tram stop in good time. Jean pulled his cap well down over his spotty brow and to Marco’s relief no one tried to stop them getting aboard, though once they were back in Armour Close Jean got some funny looks from the other kids playing on the paving stones.

As he had expected, Marco was met by a tirade of abuse from Aunt Vi, and a storm of reproaches from Hannah, since the first resented having to look after her daughter and the second wanted amusing, and was fed up with her mother’s constant complaints. As Jean had predicted, the large bag of apples went some way to placating his aunt, but later in the evening, when Marco went round to Jean’s house, he was told politely but firmly that he was feverish, could see no one and most certainly was not allowed out.

Oh well, I’ve had two wonderful days and three weeks isn’t such a very long time after all, Marco comforted himself as he pushed two chairs together to form a bed after his aunt had gone upstairs. The maddening thing is that Jean had promised to tell me about the high wall at the end of Armour Close, only we both forgot about it when we realised he had got the measles. I wonder when he’ll be able to explain just what is mysterious about that wall.


	3. The House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco and Jean head off to the other side of the wall and Jean reveals the area where he hides his money - which also includes a haunted house.

Despite Marco’s hopes, the three weeks of Jean’s incarceration felt more like three months. Hannah got better and even more demanding than usual, and though Marco’s shows of spirit had confounded his aunt for a little while, Aunt Vi soon began to slip her way into her old ways. If Marco tried to defy her, a sly clack round the head would be handed out when he least expected it, making him feel dizzy, and though he persisted in saying he would not work unless he got at least a share of the food on offer this tactic was only partially successful. Sometimes his share seems to consist of gravy, half a potato and some cabbage, though Hannah, when warned her cousin would not wait upon her unless he was decently fed, saw that Marco got bread and cheese or a connie-onnie sandwich in return for reading anything Hannah wanted to hear.

He did manage to see Jean from time to time; once he sneaked into his yard when he had seen him making his way to the privy and the two of them exchanged news. Jean, much to his surprise, found that his mother would not allow his stepfather to so much as enter the little room he shared with Kenny, since the older man had never had the measles. She also bought her son special food, and this was probably as well since Jean got them very badly, and was feverish for a whole week.

To be sure, once that week had passed he made rapid progress and was soon eating hearty meals, playing quiet games with Kenny and occasionally sneaking downstairs to meet Marco in the cobbled yard at the back of the house, but he was careful to keep these activities undemanding since he had no wish to make himself more sickly.

When Marco and Jean met, as they began to do regularly, in the little cobbled courtyard of Number Two, he was eager for any news of Armour Close and their various neighbours. Marco had taken advantage of his absence to spend a good deal of time each day with the gossip, but Jean had never been to the theatre and Marco soon realised that he was not much interested in his mother’s friends.

‘When you’re better – well, when all the spots have gone – I’ll take you with me when I go down after the Garrison performance and introduce you to everyone,’ Marco told him. ‘You’ll like them, honest to god you’ve will, Jean. And then you can hear what they’ve been doing to try and find my mother; you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

 

But though Jean agreed that this would be a grand idea, Marco had the uneasy feeling that he was not much interested either in the theatre or in the disappearance of his mother and he supposed, ruefully, that he could scarcely blame him. A whole year was a long time in anyone’s book and even the Garrison Players no longer talked as though Arabella would turn up with some believable explanation of where she had been during the past year. Even the sleepwalking incident had been long ago. Several times since then Marco had woken to find himself halfway down the stairs, tiptoeing barefoot across the cobbled yard or actually in the roadway, but he had never again gone out of Armour Close. He had mentioned these episodes to no one but Levi, the policeman who had found him on his very first sleepwalk, and though interested he had not thought it particularly important. ‘I’ve talked about it to my mates, and they say most folk grow out of it; I reckon you’re doing that right now.’

 

It was unfortunate that as Hannah’s health improved, her temper worsened and she became demanding, fractious and quite spiteful. She had always told tales but now she twisted her remarks to put her cousin in an even worse light, until Marco was forced to bargain with her. He would refuse to read to Hannah or help her with a jigsaw or playing draughts unless his cousin would agree to him playing out for at least half an hour each day. Hannah was well enough to play out by herself had she wanted to do so, but on this point at least the cousins were totally different. Marco thought he would die cooped up in the house, Hannah however thought she would die if she were forced to breathe fresh air, so arguments were frequently and tempered frayed and grew shorter than ever.

 

The day came at last, however, when the nurse pronounced Jean free from infection and the next morning the two met outside from the front door of Number Six, to gloat over their newly won freedom.

‘Mam’s give me a few coppers so we won’t have to skip the tram stop; we can ride like Christians and go all the way out to Seaforth Sands, like we did before I caught the perishin’ measles,’ Jean said. ‘God, I hope I never get the measles again, I’m telling you. I scratched, of course – who wouldn’t – and when Mam saw me at it, what did she do but trot down to the chemist shop and buy a bottle of pink yuck what the pharmacist told her was good for the spots…’

Marco giggled. ‘Calamine lotion,’ he supplied. ‘It’s awful isn’t it?’ When I got chickenpox and my mother dabbed the stuff all over me. It was all right while it was wet – quite cooling in fact – but when it dried it was awful. Aunt Vi sent me to the chemist to buy a bottle for Hannah but I told her how it would be, so we emptied it down the sink and put a tiddy bit of plate powder in the bottle with water and shook it up. Then Hannah pretended we’d used it and said it wasn’t any good, and when Vi got a plug of cotton wool and tried to dab it on the spots, Hannah grabbed the bottle and threw it out of the window. Good thing it was open, because she threw pretty damn hard for a girl, I’m telling you.’

 

Jean laughed. His skin seemed oddly pale after being shut up indoors for three weeks but otherwise, Marco considered, he was beginning to look like himself once more. But he vetoed his suggestion that they should go to Seaforth Sands. ‘No, I don’t want to do that,’ Marco said firmly. ‘Before you were taken ill you promised you’d show me the place where you hide your gelt, so I could add mine to it. And you sort of hinted that I’d be surprised when I saw the other side of that great wall at the end of Armour Close. I’ve waited three weeks now and never nagged you, but I’m going to now. I want to see the other side of that wall and I want to know where you hide your gelt and where I shall hide mine in the future. Why, Jean, if you were to be run over by tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to inherit your wealth, because I don’t know where you keep it.’

Jean laughed. ‘I don’t mean to get run over tomorrow, nor the next day neither,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I know what you mean and I reckon you’re right. We’ll save Seaforth Sands for another day, and soon as you’ve had your breakfast we’ll set off for the other side of the wall.’

 

They had agreed to meet outside Number Two in half an hour, and Marco trotted down the jigger, crossed the courtyard of Number Six and entered the kitchen, where he found Aunt Vi eating porridge whilst Hannah sat on a low stool, clutching fork upon whose prongs was spiked a round of bread. She looked up as Marco entered the room, and frowned. ‘I don’t fancy porridge, norreven with brown sugar or golden syrup,’ she said crossly. ‘I’m havin’ toast with raspberry jam. What’ll you have?’

Marco knew that this was a rhetorical question. The raspberry jam, his cousin’s favourite, was most certainly not on offer so far as he himself was concerned. Not that he minded; porridge with just a sprinkling of brown sugar was his favourite breakfast, and if he helped himself to a full dish it would not matter if he did not come in for the midday meal.

 

However, when he examined the saucepan there were only about two spoonfuls of porridge left in it, so his hopes of a good filling breakfast were dashed. He put it into his dish, however, then cut himself a round of bread, keeping one hand on it so that no one should filch it whilst he ate his porridge.

 

 

A rich smell of burning caused Hannah to give a squeak of dismay and throw the cindered slice down on the table, then reached for the slice of bread beneath Marco’s palm. ‘Gimme!’ she commanded. ‘You can have the burnt bit.’

‘Hannah Diamant, you are the most selfish b-‘

Aunt Vi’s hand clipped Marco so hard across the ear that he nearly fell of his chair, making Hannah give a muffled snort of laughter. ‘Serves you right,’ she said tauntingly. ‘What’s to stop you cutting yourself another slice if you don’t like a bit of burn?’ But Vi was already scuttling pantry wards with the remains of the loaf clutched in her hot and greedy hands, so Marco jammed the piece of bread into his trouser pocket, ignored his aunt’s shout that he was bleedin’ well wash up before he took one step out of the door, and crossed the kitchen.

 

‘No time; I’m meeting a friend,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘See you later, Hannah.’ Marco was sure his aunt would think nothing of pursuing him down the Close, so he decided that loitering outside Number Two was not a good idea and turned right into the main road. Because the summer holidays were now in full swing there were a great many children about, one or two of whom Marco knew. He stopped and spoke to Christa and Ymir, a pair of complete opposite girls who attended his school, and they told him that they had just returned from a wonderful week down on the coast. ‘Oh how lucky!’ Marco breathed. ‘My mother was always promising to take me down, but somehow we never got around to it.’

 

He had heard much of the delights of the seaside resorts in the summer and remembered his mother’s description of golden sands, gentle salt filled oceans and the enthusiastic audiences who had attended the shows on the pier. One day, Arabella had assured her son, they would go to the Klorva district or even further afield, but at present he was content to stay with the theatre over the summer, helping with scenery paintings, costume repairs and other such tasks which were best done when the theatre was empty.

Christa was a sweet-tempered girl, but it was her sharp-tonged friend who responded. ‘Your mam, your mam!’ Ymir said comptemptuously. ‘That were when you were in that posh private school, I suppose? I bet they never knew your mam was on the stage, ‘cos that’s common that is, bein’ on the stage, I mean. If she took you to the seaside at all you’d have had your face blacked up and black curly wig on your horrible head, so’s you could earn a few pennies in the black and white minstrel show…’

 

Marco was interrupted just as he was contemplating handing out a punch to the nose. Someone caught his arm and a voice spoke warningly in his ear. ‘Hello-ello-ello? Hangin’ round waiting for me, was you? Got any grub? That bleeding aunt o’ yours might hand over a bit of cake or a chunk of bread and cheese. Still, I’ve got some of each so we shan’t starve.’

It was Jean, of course, and as he spoke he had been drawing him away from the pair of girls, giving his arm a warning pinch as he did so. Marco, who had taken a deep breathe, preparing to shout abuse to Ymir even as he threw the punch, subsided, thought he shook Jean’s hand off his arm as they moved away. ‘It’s all right; it’s just that when somebody says something nasty about my mother, I lose my temper,’ he said ruefully.  He turned to his friend. ‘ _Are_ we going to see the other side of the wall, Jean?’ It’s not fair to keep talking about some mystery or other and then then making excuses not to go round there.’

 

They had been walking quite briskly along the pavement, but at this Jean stopped short. ‘Look, I told you I’ve not said a word to anyone else, about either where I stash my money nor what goes on on t’other side of the wall. I’m still not sure if I’m doing the right thing…’ He heaved a sigh. ‘But a promise is a promise, so we turn right here and keep going for a bit. Despite what you might think, it’s a long way round to reach the other side of the wall and it’s no use you asking me a lot of silly questions ‘cos I shan’t answer them. Chatter away all you like, tell me stories about your mam, but don’t ask me no questions about where we’re going or what we’ll do when we get there, got it?’

‘Yes, alright, if that’s the way you want it,’ Marco said rather sulkily. ‘But I think you’re being awful silly; how can a wall which is so ordinary on the back be mysterious and different from the front? That’s what I want to know.’

 

As Jean had said, it was long walk to reach the other side of the wall, but when they did so it was just as mysterious and extraordinary as Jean had hinted. The wall which truncated Armour Close hid what appeared to be a huge, crumbling mansion of a house; it was only visible over the top of another large wall, and the roof was half missing, telling Marco that it was now a ruin, though it must have been magnificent years ago. He could see the tops of trees and the staring glassless eyes of windows, but could see no way in. He turned and stared at Jean. ‘Are you sure that Armour Close is on the other side of that crumbling house?’ he asked uneasily. How did no one tell from the only sort of view they could get that Armour Close was really so close? For all he knew Jean might have led him for miles, through dozens of tiny streets – well, he had done so – before shopping in front of the only building of sufficient height to own that wall. Marco looked at the neighbouring buildings, but none of them were houses. There were small and large factories with busy yards full of bicycles in racks, the occasional horse, and men strolling around, to and fro, smoking cigarettes or eating food from greaseproof wrappers, for by now, Marco guessed, it must be dinner time. Clearly, the reason that no one was interested in the old walled house was because people came here to work and not to live; this was not a family neighbourhood. Whereas in Armour Close there were always children playing, mothers shouting to their offspring to run messages or go indoors for a meal, here, Marco guessed, when the siren sounded for the end of the shift, workers were merely intent upon getting back to their homes and had little or no interest in their surroundings.

 

He said as much to Jean, who grunted assent. ‘The strange thing is that when I’m in Armour Close I hardly ever hear any noise from over here, apart from the hooter which marks the end of the shift; I suppose it’s because the wall’s so high. And then of course, grown-ups’ voices don’t carry in the way ours do. But now that you know what’s on this side of the wall, you’ll maybe notice sounds which you wouldn’t have noticed before.’

Marco agreed to this, though with reservations. But then Jean gave him a friendly poke in the ribs. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. ‘Don’t tell me…’ he pointed towards the slated roof of the mansion far above their heads, ‘you don’t believe that Armour Close is a stone’s throw away. Tell you what, how about if we prove it? No use doing anything now in broad daylight, but tonight when we’re back in the Close and there’s no one around I’ll get something really colourful and bright and shy it as high as I can, right over the wall and the house as well, if I’m lucky. Then tomorrow we’ll come round again, and the proof will be there.’

 

Marco sniffed, but gave Jean a reluctant grin. ‘All right, all right, I’m sure you’ve worked it all out and Armour Close is just over the wall. And now, how the devil do we get to the house?’

‘I suppose you think it’s impossible, don’t you?’ Jean asked mockingly. ‘Like most people, you see what you expect to see, not what is really there. Walk very slowly around this bleedin’ great wall and maybe you’ll see a way in and maybe you won’t. I’m not goin’ to help you, because this is a sort of test. Go on, start lookin’.’

Forewarned, Marco began to walk very slowly along the wall. He kept his eyes on the ground, half expecting to find that some animal had dug a tunnel beneath it, but saw nothing. Then he began to examine the brickwork and in a remarkably short space of time, or so his gratified pal assured him, he had found the way in. Perhaps a dozen feet from where he had started looking a mass of ivy hid the uneven brickwork, and had it not been for the sudden tension of the figure beside him, Marco might have passed it by without a second glance, assuming that, in the way of the ivy, it had rooted and clung to every crevice in the great wall. But the slight stiffening of Jean’s body was enough to make Marco not only look, but also to put a hand on the gleaming ivy. He prepared to tug, then realised that the ivy was rooted on the far side of the wall and what he beheld was simply a curtain, which, as soon as he moved it away, revealed a tiny scratched, scarred door.

 

‘Well done you!’ Jean said in a low voice. ‘Better make sure no one’s watching…’ He glanced quickly around, then reached down and pulled open the door. To Marco’s surprise it opened easily, without a squeak or a protesting creak, and though he turned towards Jean to remark on it, he pushed him through and shut the door behind the pair of them before turning to him and blowing out his cheeks in a sigh of relief. ‘Phew!’ He said ‘Now I’ll show you where I hide my gelt.’ He turned towards the house, but Marco put a detaining hand on his arm.

‘Hold on a minute! he whispered. ‘This is a perishin’ garden. Oh I don’t deny it’s been let run wild, but it really is a garden, Jean. I didn’t know there were gardens anywhere near Armour Close. Why, there’s fully grown trees – flowers and all. Someone could live here. I wonder who owns it? Oh, look, roses, really beautiful ones! I would bring ones like these to my mother. And look! Masses of blackberries, only they’re still red berries now – and look at the rhubarb! The stems are as thick as my wrist; I bet they’d be tough if you tried to put them in a pie.’

 

Jean followed Marco’s glance. ‘Is that rhubarb?’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘I’ve never seen them big leaves on top of it when it’s for sale in the market. But there’s gooseberries, two or three different sorts, and I reckon there were strawberries once, only they’ve all gone tiny. But the blackcurrant bushes, though the fruit is getting thinner, are still just about alive.’

Marco drew in a deep ecstatic breathe and expelled it in a low whistle. ‘Oh, Jean, this place is just about perfect! We could come here every day and bring it back to what it was years ago. We could root out the weeds, harvest the fruit – I’ve already seen two apple trees, a Victoria plum and a greengage – and then we could sell the fruit and buy seed with the money. The first thing we ought to do is get rid of the weeds and dig over the beds. I remember my mum saying you should always plant potatoes in the ground that’s new to cultivation, and before the crash came she was a farmer’s daughter and knew what she was talking about. Oh Jean, lets!’

 

He looked to his new friend and saw that he was laughing.

‘Honest to god Marco, you’re mad as myself,’ he said approvingly. ‘I had the same thought when I first found my way in, but it ain’t possible, of course. Someone must own both the house and garden, and I’ll take a bet that if we started to interfere somebody would fetch the scuffers.’ He pointed to the wall. ‘See that loose brick? It’s the one with a splash of white paint on it, which I put there so’s to identify it. Pull it out.’

Marco did as he was told and found that the brick had been hollowed out and contained an interesting number of coins and one beautiful, if dirty, ten shilling note. Hastily, he plunged a hand into his trouser pocket and produced almost a shilling in pennies and ha’ pennies which he slid into the hollow of the brick. He watched as Jean replaced it into the wall, then jerked his thumb towards it. ‘Isn’t it time we took a look at the house itself? You were kidding when you said someone would get the police if we dug the beds over, weren’t you?’ he asked hopefully. ‘No one’s been here for years – ten, or twenty, or even more! The garden’s a wonderful tangle, but we shan’t be able to play in it until we’ve cut the weeds and brambles down. Goodness, Jean, there’s a bed of nettles up against that ol’ door that’s almost as tall as I am, and though the brambles are covered in berries, they’re covered in prickles as well. We can’t do much out here until we’ve armed ourselves with a scythe, a couple of spades and some garden sheers. As it is, we’ll have to be right careful, because the path’s disappeared and if we aren’t really clever we’ll arrive at the house just about covered in stings and scratches. You’d better go first, because your kecks are longer so my legs are more exposed. Look, that’s where the path was once; it goes straight to the door and-‘

 

Jean gave a snort. ‘If you think I’m going to walk bold and brass, up to that door you’re bleedin’ well wrong,’ he said roundly. ‘I’ve not told you, because I didn’t imagine you’d be daft enough to risk going into a tottering old house, but since you are I’ll tell you why I won’t go with you. Its haunted that’s why!’

Marco stared at him, scarcely able to believe his ears. This was one of the rough Kirstein boys, and everyone knew these boys feared nothing, so why should he pretend that the house was haunted unless he was simply saying it to frighten him? Well, he wouldn’t succeed. Marco pulled a face at him, then tried to push him along the almost obliterated path. ‘Don’t be stupid Jean. If you’d said it might fall down or crush the pair of us to a jelly then I would have believed you, but haunted? Ha ha ha! You’ll tell me next that it’s the ghost of great uncle who lived in the house when he was a boy and got trapped in an old oak chest, like the woman in the story.’

Marco looked at Jean, waiting for him to begin to laugh, and to say that he was only kidding, but he did nothing of the sort. ‘If you go in there, you go alone.’ He said firmly. ‘I’ve only been in once, and that was enough for me. Honest to God, Marco, I never believed in ghosts until I discovered this place. I liked it so much that I fought my way through that door, the one you can see there. I crossed the kitchen – I think it was anyway – and went into the next room. It was pretty dark because the windows were boarded up, though of course the wall goes all the way round the whole building so there ain’t a lot of light anyhow. There’s furniture in there; I reckon it was a dining room once, but no sooner had I took a look round than I heard someone singing. At first I thought it were coming from outside, but then I realised it were in the next room along. I’m telling you, Marco, for two pins I would’ve cut and run…’ he grinned unhappily, ‘but I didn’t have a pin on me, so I fumbled my way along a short corridor, which smelled horrible, until I found the doorknob of the next room, and… oh, Marco, even remembering makes me go cold all over… and before I could turn the handle I felt it turn in my fingers. I swear to god I hadn’t moved it, so I knew there was someone on the other side of the door. I can tell you I snatched my hand back as though the doorknob was red hot, but the door swung open and after a moment I peered inside. The singing had stopped, but I couldn’t see no one; there room was empty and dark. Then… then someone started to laugh. It was a horrible laugh, the sort madmen give, you know? I took one last look around the room – it was empty alright – and then I ran like a rabbit and didn’t stop until I had my hand on the outside door. Then I collapsed on the grass and told myself that I had imagined the whole thing.  Only I’m not the imaginative kind.’ He straightened his shoulders and grinned perkily at Marco. ‘So if you go into the house, you go alone.’ He repeated firmly. ‘And now let’s have the bread and cheese me mam gave me. I wish I’d brought a bottle of cold tea – even telling you about the ghost has dried my mouth out.’

 

Marco stared at him; he was the most down to earth person he could imagine, which meant that if he said he had heard mysterious laughter coming from an empty room, then he simply had to believe him. He had said he thought the house was haunted, but Marco thought this most unlikely. He knew sound travels in peculiar ways and decided it was quite possible that a tramp had said he thought the old house, but did not want anyone to know the place was occupied. Being a child of the theatre he knew very well that it was possible for someone to ‘throw their voice’, so that the sound appeared to come from somewhere quite different. Therefore, he patted Jean’s arm in a friendly fashion and sat him down beside him on a low wall. ‘I know what I’m going to tell you sounds odd, but we had a variety of acts in the theatre from time to time. All sorts of different ones – conjurers, tight rope walkers and mystery acts – and one of the latter is a chap called Cheeky Connie, who can throw his voice. It’s really odd; he can stand stage left, smiling at the audience, but his voice will come from stage right, and because he’s also what they called a ventriloquist you won’t see his lips move, not even a little bit.

 

Jean snorted. ‘Do you expect me to believe that a feller with a gift like that is wasting his time frightening kids so’s they don’t investigate a tumble-down old house? He enquired, his voice vibrant with disbelief. ‘Pull the other one, Marco Bodt, it’s got bells on! Tell you what, if you go in, and can find a logical reason for that awful laughter, then I’ll give you a bag of Mrs Hanji’s gobstoppers and not even ask for a bit.’

Marco laughed. It was a good offer, and one he should have seized immediately, yet to his own surprise he did not do so. Instead, he got up, knocking the worst of the nettles and brambles, made his way towards the house. Even as he did so, he found himself hoping that something would occur to save him from having to put his theory to the test. He looked back hopefully to Jean. ‘If you come with me you’ll be able to see that is all moonshine and there’s no Ghoulies or ghosties or long-legged beasties waiting to jump out and shout boo,’ he teased. ‘If you won’t come in, how can I prove that I’ve even crossed the threshold?’

Jean chuckled. ‘I’ll see you go in, and I can guarantee that if you get into the room I told you about, you’ll come out of there like a rocket, and that’ll be proof enough for me.’

 

That was scarcely reassuring, but Marco took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and began to push his way through the waist-high leaves, having to stop every now and again to detach the clinging brambles as he approached the old house. As he got closer, two things occurred to him. One was that the door which he took to lead into the kitchen was sturdy and strong-looking; the other was that it looked quite modern, not at all in poor repair like the rest of the house. Insensibly, Marco found this cheering. Indeed, he found himself hoping that the door would be firmly locked against him, which would be a cast of iron excuse for going no further. When he reached it however, his secret and unworthy hopes were proven false. The door swung open easily beneath his touch, with no eldritch shriek of old and unused hinges. Indeed it swung wide, letting in light which penetrated the room for several feet.

 

Behind him, Marco heard a particularly nasty chuckle which made his blood run cold, until he realised that it was only Jean trying to frighten him. Then he walked steadily into the room, which was indeed the kitchen. It was, as Jean said, extremely dark inside, because every window was covered by shutters, firmly closed.

He crossed the kitchen on silent feet, beginning to be aware of the rather unpleasant sensation. He felt that he was being watched, though there was no one in the room, beside himself – he could tell that even in the semi-darkness – but he wasn’t afraid, only annoyed with Jean, who had refused to back him up and search through the building with him. He glanced back at the open door and though it he saw Jean sitting on one of the low walls eating an apple, staring through the aperture at him. Marco gave a little wave and was disproportionately glad when Jean waved back. He wished he had an apple, and for a moment contemplated returning to the garden and insisting that Jean share his ill-gotten gains, but then, with a resigned sigh, he decided to get his exploration over. He left the kitchen, mouse quiet, and entered the passageway of which his pal had spoken. Because there was no light at all, not even a crack from a badly shuttered window, the corridor was pitch black, and though Marco told himself over and over that he did not believe in ghosts, he felt a frisson of something very close to fear when he stretched out his hand and laid it on the doorknob of the room which Jean had said was haunted. He moved his fingers, but greatly to his relief it was only he who gently twisted the knob, opened the door silently and peered inside.

 

Blackness met his eyes, total blackness without one speck of daylight. Marco took one faltering step into the room and even as he did so he thought he heard a low chuckled begin. It was, as Jean had said, an inhuman noise; it sounded as though it came from hell itself and all Marco’s courage and determination fled. He shot out of the door backwards, clouting his elbow so hard on the unseen door jamb that he emitted a startled yell, and as he ran at top speed along the corridor, crossed the dimly lit kitchen at a gallop and burst into the warm and sunny garden he was only too willing to admit that there was something very odd indeed hidden away in the crumbling mansion.

Jean was laughing. ‘Told you so,’ he said mockingly. ‘Did you hear that awful laugh? I’ve been sitting out here telling myself it was some sort of trick, like what you told me about that guy who could throw his voice. Well, I dare say it is, but it’s put me off and I bet it’s put you off too.’

He had remained sitting on the low wall and Marco sat down beside him. He was still breathless, both from his fast run up the garden, heedless of nettles and brambles, and his fear over what had befallen him in the house, but he was beginning to calm down and too examine what had happened with a critical eye. ‘What is really odd is that I still like the house, and the garden too. The garden’s beautiful like my one back in Jinae, and it’s somewhere I wouldn’t mind spending a great deal of time. And I think, if we came back here with an electric torch each and threw open all the shutters of the house, and got to work cleaning it, then it would be a grand place to be and play. We could have it for our own, because no one else seems to want it. In fact we could kit it out – the kitchen at any rate – and stay here overnight, if we had a mind.’

Jean stared at him, eyes wide, and Marco read awe in his glance. ‘You’re a guy and a half, you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ain’t you afraid of nothin’, Marco Bodt? I wouldn’t stay in that bleeding evil mansion, not even if they paid me a hundred quid a night. And as for liking it – you must be mad! Don’t tell me you wasn’t scared, because I shan’t believe you.’

 

Marco snorted. ‘I was frightened all right, when I heard that laugh,’ he admitted. ‘But I tell you something really weird Jean. I know it sounds daft – quite mad, really – but when I was in the kitchen I kept having the oddest feeling that the house had something to do with my mother and her disappearance. The police stopped being interested ever so after she went, and though some of her friends, especially the Garrison Players, tried their best to contact her, even their interests faded away after a few months. But I still believe somebody stole my mother away and if I hunt really hard I’ll find her.’ He looked hopefully to his companion. ‘Will you help me Jean?’  You’ve never met my mother, but she’s ever so beautiful and the nicest person in the world. If we find her, she’ll take me away from my aunt and reward you somehow, though I don’t know how. What do you say to that, eh?’

Jean was sitting, elbows on knees, hands supporting his thin chin, but now he stood up, nodding slowly. ‘I’d like to get you away from your perishin’ aunt. That woman has some nerve, to knock you around when you aren’t even her own child.’ He said, and Marco had to turn his head away to hide his smile. He thought it funny that Jean thought mums and dads had a perfect right to scalp you alive, but other relatives should keep their distance; still, no point in raising the matter now. Instead he got up and headed for the door in the garden wall.

‘Let’s be getting home so we can earn some money. Torches are expensive, but candles are pretty cheap. Suppose we come over here tomorrow with a few candle ends and explore the house that way?’ If we wait until we’ve saved enough for electric torches, we’ll still be waiting come Christmas.’

‘Shut up.’ Jean said briskly. ‘I agree with you that the garden’s prime but I won’t go into the house again, not if you were even to pay me a hundred smackeroos. Not by torchlight, nor candlelight, not even by bleeding torch light. Hear me?’

 

* * *

 

 

‘Where have you been Marco Bodt?’ Hannah’s voice was shrill with annoyance. ‘You’re supposed to be a friend of mine, as well as me cousin, but you bobby off without me whenever you’ve a mind, leaving me to do Mam’s messages while you play with that nasty, dirty Kirstein kid from Number Two.’ Marco glared at Hannah for a moment, silently defending Jean. ‘Mam were going to take the pair of us away tomorrow because she’s got a load of starched tablecloths for one of the big hotels on the coast, and she said if we’d carry half a dozen each then once they were delivered – and paid for, of course – she’d let us play on the sand and paddle and have tea and cake before we come home again. But when I tell her how you’ve been off wi’ that scruffy Jean Kirstein, that’ll be you out.’

 

Once, Marco would have jumped at the thought of such a delightful day out, but now he shook his head in pretend sorrow. ‘Sorry Hannah, I’ve got other plans,’ he said briefly, and then seeing the spiteful look deepen on his cousin’s face, he broke into hurried speech. ‘I’d come with you and give you a hand if I could, honest to God I would, but it just isn’t on. I promised Mrs Kirstein that I’d tidy around after they left, and then lock up. I told you they’re having a whole week at the seaside to make up for them all having the measles. They’re renting two rooms down by the funfair; all she wants to do now if cook enough grub for the first three or four days of the holidays. I’m going to help her, I promised, and she’s going to give me a sixpence if I agree to check the house every few days to make sure all’s well.

 

‘You’re a liar,’ Hannah said at once. ‘Mrs Kirstein’s quite capable of doing her own cooking; she won’t want you hanging about. And if you told her you were needed to help with the tablecloths she’d probably say leave the cleaning until their due back.’ Her tone abruptly descended from demanding to coaxing. ‘Aw, come on, Marco, be a sport. You’ll enjoy it, you know you will, and it’ll be no fun for me if I have to go with Mam alone, ‘cos she hates the seaside. If you’ve got any pennies we might have a go on the funfair – I’m rare fond of the swing boats – so why not be a pal and come with us?’ 

The two cousins were sitting on the steps outside Number Six, in Hannah’s case, simply watching the other girls as they jumped in and out of the rope, chanting ‘Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper’ as they played. Marco, on the other hand was thinking about the house which Jean had showed him, so only had half of his attention upon his cousin. He understood why Hannah was so keen on having company and was tempted to agree to go along, for though he and Jean had been saving up enough money to buy really strong torches. Marco had finally persuaded Jean to relent, but though each had required a pocketful of candle ends and a box of matches, they had only essayed one attempt to look around the house by candlelight and they both remembered, with a jolt of sickening horror, how the moment they had opened the door the invisible laughter had reached out and invisible hand and snuffed their candles. To the accompaniment of mad giggling.

 

Naturally enough, their retreat had been fast and terrified; Jean almost trampling Marco underfoot as they had both fought to escape back into the garden, whilst the mad giggle behind them had gradually faded into silence. Later, without telling anyone why he was interested, Jean had made some casual enquiries about the place and learned that a man who had made himself a huge fortune by dealing in slaves had lived there. That man had profited by the misery and degradation of the people who lives he had ruined. And now, Marco had thought dramatically about when Jean told him the story, his restless soul was not allowed to enter heaven, but was tied for ever to the place he had lived in uncaring luxury for so long.

‘Marco?’ What is it you and that feller get up to?’ Hannah whined. ‘You never used to go off without me. Sometimes you used to hang around the Close, sometimes you went wondering off up to where the big shops are, sometimes I believe you even went home to the Avenue, though there’s strangers living in your house now. Oh, and you went to the theatre of course, hoping they’d tell you something about your mam, only they never did, ‘cos they don’t know nothin’. But after we’d all had the measles, you changed. You and that Jean went off just about every day, I dunno where. And now, when the Kirsteins are off to the seaside for a while week, you might at least do things wi’ me until they get back.’

 

Marco sighed, and was about to agree to go to the seaside with Hannah – it was better than hanging around the Close, after all – when something suddenly occurred to him. Jean was nice alright, probably the only real friend he had, but after that one ill-fated expedition he had refused point-blank to explore the slave trader’s mansion again. Marco himself had learned a good deal about the house lately. He had done to what the school of children called the museum of slavery and seen for himself the leg irons and manacles, the instruments of punishment, and talked to old folk who still remembered hearing how the slaves had been lined up in one of the city squares and auctioned to the highest bidder in those far off days. Marco’s soft heart had wept for the misery the slaves had suffered. Husbands, wives and children had been torn apart and Marco, robbed of his own mother, thought he knew how they must have felt, the depths of their suffering.

 

One old man had told him many stories of how brutal and sadistic were the men who ran the sugar cane plantations of the area, where many of the slaves were destined to go. He had heard stories of dead or dying slaves being thrown overboard from the clippers ships, so many that sharks would follow the ships’ wake, eager for the ‘food’ thrown out by such uncaring hands.

Though the stories had horrified him, Marco had been tempted to pass them onto Jean, but in the end had decided against it. He guessed he would show a ghoulish interest in them, but also guessed that it would probably make him less keen on entering the old mansion. And now, with the summer holidays looming to a close and even the sheltered trees in the walled garden beginning to take hints of autumn, their free time would soon become severely restricted. Opportunities to visit their playground would be limited to the weekends, Jean’s enthusiasm, always somewhat lukewarm even for the garden, would probably disappear altogether.

 

Before his convocation with old Mr Reiss, Marco had told himself that since he most certainly didn’t believe in ghosts it was some trick of sound, perhaps from an underground stream, or even an echo, which had frightened him so. But now, with his new knowledge of the terrible past of the old house, he shared a good deal of Jean’s apprehension, along with a growing feeling that, if there were a ghost, the ghost of some poor tormented slave who had suffered in the hands of the mansion’s owner, it might recognise n him a kindred spirit.

For although it was perhaps unfair to compare the living with his aunt to slavery, he was undoubtedly bullied and derided. Aunt Vi treated him like dirt, took pleasure in piling work on his weary shoulders, and the only emotion she showed him was dislike; never a hint of gratitude. Mr Reiss had called him ‘the male Cinderella’, though only in jest, but to Marco the nickname was no joke; it was too close to the truth. Furthermore, he too had known the pain of loss when his dearly beloved mother had been torn from his arms. It occurred to him now that if he went into the house alone, and there really was a ghost living there, he could identify with the poor soul, which was more than Jean could do.

 

‘ _Marco!’_ Hannah’s whining voice jerked Marco abruptly back into the present. In his mind he had been seeing the tall white clipper ships and their miserable cargo as they sailed, and now here he was back in Armour Close with the girls playing jump on the rope on the dirty paving stones and his cousin jerking his arm. ‘Marco, _will_ you answer me! If that horrible boy is off to the seaside then why can’t you come with me and Mam?’

‘I _told_ you… I promised to help…’

But Hannah cut ruthlessly across his sentence. ‘I don’t care what you promised, and nor will me mam,’ she said angrily. ‘We can’t manage all them bloody tablecloths without someone to give us a hand, so you can just make up your mind to it that you’re coming with us, got it?’

 

Marco reflected with an inward smile that Hannah was just like his mother. She never considered the feelings of others but simply went straight for whatever she wanted, either bullying or whinging, depending which she thought would be most successful. Today, however, Marco told himself, he was doomed to disappointment. He turned to his cousin, giving her a falsely sweet smile. ‘Sorry Hannah, you and your mam are on a loser. Unless you intend to drag me to the boat in chains, you’re going to have to carry those tablecloths yourselves.’ He got briskly to his feet, dusting down his trousers, but moving judiciously out of his cousin’s reach before he did so. ‘I can’t promise to help as far as the ferry because I shall be too busy. See you later!’

 

‘Hey Marco?! Fancy a kick about?’

Reiner Braun, one of the older boys, grinned encouragingly at Marco as he bounced a football between his feet, and indicated that they would pass it to him if he cared to join. Marco ran forward and saw Reiner and the other boys grin as Hannah began to sob.

‘You’re supposed to my pal…’ she was wailing, but when no one took the slightest of notice she got heavily to her feet and went slowly through the front door of Number Six, still calling Marco every bad name she could think of.

‘That there cousin of yours is a right nasty piece of work,’ Reiner commented as he passed the ball over to Marco. ‘Dunno how you stand her myself.’

‘She can be alright at times, and anyway, she’s not nearly as horrible as my aunt,’ Marco confessed twirling the ball between and over his feet before passing it to Bert – another member of the group of boys. ‘They want me to go with them to help carry a load of starched tablecloths back to one of the big hotels near the coast…’ He grinned at Reiner ‘But I’ve other fish to fry, and won’t let my aunt be mad when Hannah tells on me!’

Reiner and Bert returned the grin. ‘I might have guessed she were a tale-clat as well,’ Bert said, before kicking the ball at the wall, allowing it to bounce off before returning it to Reiner.

‘Still.’ Reiner cut in. ‘A day at the coast ain’t to be sneezed at.’ He flicked the ball over his leg, before twirling it towards Marco. ‘You might even get an ice-cream cornet out of the old witch; mebbe even a dinner, or at least a paddle in the briny.’

Marco snorted. ‘If she brought me an ice cream she’d charge me for it, and the same goes for a dinner.’ He said gloomily. ‘Aunt Vi doesn’t give anything away for nothing. But I’ve got business of my own to attend to, so I’ll bypass the coast, just this once.’ He replied before kicking the ball back to Reiner.

Bert nodded understandingly. ‘Don’t blame you; I only met your mam a couple times but God, above knowns how she managed to have such a horrible sister as Vi.’ He said. ‘If I were you I’d sag off, fine myself somewhere else to live… ever thought of it?’

‘Heaps of times,’ Marco admitted. He, Reiner and Bert, being in different classes, had never much to do with each other in the past, but now Marco realised he had an ally in the older boys. ‘But I’m always hoping my mother will turn up again; she’d never leave me on purpose, honest to God.’

The other boys grinned. ‘Of course she wouldn’t,’ Reiner said firmly. ‘Well kid, if you ever need help in getting away from that aunt of yours, just let us know. I’d be tickled pink to put a spoke on her wheel, especially if it helped you. And one of these days your mam will return; I’m sure of it as I am that you’ll escape from the witch. Did you know we called her that – the witch I mean?’

 

Marco shook his head. Not only had he found new friends, but he was now aware of how much his aunt was disliked. He thought the nickname suited Vi admirably and could not wait to tell Jean. He must go round to Number Two straight away, and help his pal’s mother – who so generously fed him on bread and cheese when Aunt Vi let him go hungry – to get ready for their longed-for holiday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys really enjoy this as I'm putting my full commitment to it! I'm planning for the next chapter to be out between a fortnight to a month as it takes a while to draft and type everything up. Please let me know what you think of the new story and keep up to date through my tumblr page: http://madelineamyjayne.tumblr.com/ :)


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